by Sue Grafton
I was already worried I might not have another opportunity to pick her brain. “Would you mind if I asked a couple of questions about Sloan?”
She made a gesture that signified her consent.
“You were in the picture when she was killed.”
“I was.”
“I understand Tigg was supportive of Bayard.”
“He made a deal with the DA, didn’t he?”
“But that might have been more about his pride than protecting Bayard.”
“The truth is Tigg mistreated Bayard. He and Joan fought over him like two dogs over a bone. He was just a little kid and they tore him apart. Do you know what kept him going? He knew in the long run he’d inherit Tigg’s estate, which he considered just compensation for all the shit he put up with.”
Bayard approached from the corridor in chinos, a white polo shirt, and deck shoes without socks. “Thank you, Maisie, for minding my business for me. If I need sympathy, I’ll give you a call.”
She turned on him. “I don’t have much sympathy for you, Bayard. I’m all played out. Your life was tough, I’ll grant you that one, but you put yourself where you are. You don’t like it, then straighten up your act.”
“Good counsel from someone who’s never worked a day in her life. You think your advice is so sterling, hang out a sign. Maybe someone else will take you seriously. I don’t. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
“I wish I could say the same,” she snapped.
The look that lingered between them was, for the first time, intimate, possibly because they were finally putting their cards on the table. Maisie crossed to the front door. She adjusted her earphones, activated her CD player, and let herself out.
“Sorry about that,” Bayard said. His apology was a move designed to shift me to his side, as though Maisie’s candor had embarrassed us both. Not so from my perspective, but I didn’t think I should say so to him.
“Good I caught up with you,” I said. “I understand you’re going out of town.”
“Just for the weekend. Palm Springs. I’m hoping to fine-tune my golf game.”
I was hoping he’d be sober enough to hold a club. “When do you leave?”
“Late tomorrow afternoon. Ordinarily we’d drive, but in the interest of saving time, we decided to fly.”
“Could I ask a quick question? I may not have occasion to talk to you again.”
The notion of never seeing me again seemed to improve his mood.
“You want to come into the living room and have a seat?”
“I’m fine here. This really won’t take long.”
He gestured carelessly. “I heard about Fritz, so you can save the condolences for someone else.”
“You weren’t a fan?”
“He was an irritating little shit, so no love lost. I’m sorry for what happened, but I can’t say I’m upset.”
“You’re aware the Astra Constable was found up at Yellowweed?”
“The police must be thrilled.”
“Do you remember what happened to the gun after Sloan was killed?”
“Vividly. This was still up at the site while Austin was coaching us on our alibi. He tried to foist it off on Troy, but Troy was having none of it so then he turns to me, like I’m the lucky recipient. I don’t want the damn thing. He says all he wants me to do is pass the gun to Iris to hold for him. I mean, how weird is that after what happened to her?”
“And she agreed?”
“She never had the chance. Once Sloan’s body was found, the police were all over us. Of course, they were all over everybody else as well, but the focus quickly narrowed to the four of us. We might have gotten away with it, but let’s face it, we were amateurs. Austin and I managed to keep our composure, but even early on, it was clear Fritz would crack.”
“What about Troy?”
“He’s a Boy Scout at heart. If Fritz rolled over, so would he. Anyway, before I had time to give Iris the gun, Austin showed up and asked to have it back. He said he was hitting the road and needed it for protection. He also wanted to keep the weapon out of the hands of the police because it was registered to his dad and he didn’t want his father implicated.”
“How soon after that did he leave?”
“Don’t know, but I doubt he hung around long. Within days, word was out that Fritz had broken down and confessed everything. Austin’s ass was grass. Mine, too, of course, but Fritz painted him as the mastermind. There was no way Austin could tap-dance his way out of that.”
I stared at the floor, wondering if he was leveling with me. Somehow, I thought not. “Any idea where he went?”
“He didn’t mention a destination. The less I knew, the better where he was concerned.”
“And you haven’t heard from him since?”
“Not a peep.”
• • •
In the car again, wending my way out of Horton Ravine, I passed Maisie as she ran along the road. She was some distance from the house, so she’d made good time. I drove another hundred yards beyond her and pulled over on the berm. When she reached me, I rolled down the window. “I’m not sure we finished our conversation. Is there anything else you want to say?”
She placed her hands on the roof of the car and supported herself for a moment while she caught her breath. I could see sweat collecting in the creases in her neck. “Talk to Sloan’s mom.”
“About what?”
“Her bio-dad.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Why are you willing to help now and not before?”
She smiled. “At this point, what do I have to lose?”
39
I made a U-turn and drove back into the heart of Horton Ravine. It was a gorgeous day, sunny and mild with a sky irritatingly empty of clouds. You could check the radar sweep from San Francisco to San Diego and you wouldn’t see even the smallest green freckle that might signify r-a-i-n. I parked the car in Margaret’s drive and made my way up the walk, wondering how she felt now that she’d been robbed of the object of her bloodthirsty fantasies. I had just reached the porch when the front door opened and a kid came out, closing the door behind him. He was a carbon copy of Joey Seay—same jug ears, same furrowed brow. He stopped when he saw me.
“Are you Justin?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
I held out my hand. “Kinsey Millhone,” I said.
“Got it. The private detective.”
“So true,” I said. “Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”
“Is there any way to avoid it?”
“Not really. This will be quick.”
“Good, because I’m due at work. What do you want?”
“I understand you were here the day Sloan’s room was emptied.”
“Me and some other kids.”
“In the process, did one of you come across the infamous tape?”
“Nope.”
“Isn’t it possible one of the others found it and didn’t say anything to you?”
“Nope.”
“How can you be so sure?” I said, sounding slightly cranky.
“Me and Joey found it the year we were living here, right after Sloan died. It was like a scavenger hunt. We knew it was somewhere on the property, but we didn’t know where. I was actually the one who found it.”
“Where was it?”
“There was this bathroom between our two bedrooms. She’d removed the heater vent set into the kickplate and she’d slid it in there.”
“What happened to the tape?”
“Nothing. Joey hung on to it with the idea that one day he’d find a use for it.”
“That turned out to be fortunate.”
“Well, yeah. First day at Santa Teresa High School, who does he run into but the chick spread out on the pool table?”
�
�Lucky for him. And here they are years later, about to get married.”
Justin shrugged.
“Your stepmother’s a fan of patience.”
“Sure, if you want to even the score.”
“Really? Was it that important to Joey ten years after the fact?”
“He loved Sloan. She was a goddess to him. Fritz McCabe was a twerp and deserved everything he got.”
“And he’s dead now.”
“Good news. We didn’t have anything to do with it.”
I rang the bell and she opened the door moments later. Behind her in the hall, Sloan’s now ancient companion, Butch, made his way painfully to her side. Maybe in his dimming memory, he still held out the hope that one day Sloan would be there. He was a sad old guy and I felt my heart break all over again at his optimism.
Margaret brightened when she saw me. “Oh, Kinsey. Please come in. Something’s come up and I was wondering who to talk to. Maybe you can help.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
This time, instead of leading me into the living room, she walked me through to her study at the back of the house. This room was a jumble: big rolltop desk piled high with paper—bills, correspondence, catalogues, newspapers. To one side of the desk, there was a table topped by a typewriter. On the rolling chair, she’d balanced six fat accordion-style folders with ragged index tabs. The bookshelves were helter-skelter, some books lined up properly, some flat, many leaning drunkenly on adjacent volumes. There was an enormous stack of last year’s Christmas cards on a side table and an upright metal stand was stuffed with documents, so many files jammed in together that I doubted the device served its purpose, which was easy access. She’d struck me as being neat, tucked in, and conservative, and the disorder here seemed out of character.
Today she wore a red shantung pantsuit, a dramatic contrast to her black hair, which fit her head like a feather bathing cap. Her only jewelry was a necklace of gold beads, graduating in size from the small ones near her throat to larger ones at the outer rim. Her black-rimmed glasses lent her a serious air. “Sit anywhere you find room,” she said as she settled in her wooden swivel chair.
There were three other chairs in the room, all in use. I did a quick survey, trying to determine which pile would be easiest to move. I chose the magazines, but to my dismay, once I set them on the floor, they slid sideways in an avalanche of glossy paper.
I took a seat, saying, “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“A detective from the sheriff’s department stopped by the store this morning to talk to Iris. She was terribly upset. She’d just read about Fritz in the paper and she hadn’t absorbed the shock of it. Up pops this fellow asking where she and Joey were the previous Friday night, as though they might be implicated in the murder.”
“Was this Detective Burgess?”
“Yes, him. She mentioned the name, but it went in one ear and out the other.”
“He’s just starting his investigation, so this is routine. Right now, he’s assembling a picture of Fritz’s life—friends, old classmates, and acquaintances. He’ll be talking to a lot of people, asking whether Fritz had enemies and that sort of thing. If Iris and Joey were good friends of his, there shouldn’t be a problem. Did she say why she was so distressed?”
“Well, that’s just it. She drew a complete blank when he questioned her. He asked how much she knew about the blackmail scheme and she didn’t know how to reply. Fritz had confided the details in the strictest confidence and she didn’t want to violate his trust. His parents might still be determined to sweep it all under the rug.”
“Extortion is the last thing on their minds at this point. They’re trying to come to terms with their loss. Aside from that, I’m sure Detective Burgess understands how flustered some people get when dealing with law enforcement. Honestly, he’s a nice man and I’m sure he didn’t mean to frighten her.”
“It’s just that he caught her by surprise. She worried if her answers were incorrect, she’d have painted herself into a corner later on.”
“If she tells the truth, why would it come to that?”
“That’s how it seems to me, but she doesn’t know anything about the law or police procedure. She wondered if she should have an attorney present as a safeguard, but when she asked, he looked at her like she’d just admitted she was guilty of something.”
“He was probably surprised she raised the issue in the course of a simple conversation.”
“You don’t know if it was simple or not.”
“True enough,” I said.
“The fact of the matter is, she and Joey were with me Friday night because I asked if they’d paint Sloan’s room. It looked very shabby once the furniture was gone and I thought it was time to freshen it up. Joey went to the paint store and bought the supplies they needed, including paint trays and rollers. I have the receipt showing the date and time of the purchase. Later, after they’d worked for a couple of hours, I ordered pizza for the three of us. I have that receipt as well.”
“Those should come in handy if Burgess asks. I’m not sure I’d volunteer the information.”
“Why not?”
“He’s not accusing her of anything at this point. It sounds like she overreacted.”
“Perhaps, but I thought you might talk to him for us and clarify her position.”
“That’s not a good idea. All it would do is make him wonder why I was sticking my nose into his business.”
“What if he comes back and asks something else? What is she to say?”
“She can talk to an attorney if it would make her feel better.”
“She and Joey don’t have money to spare, but I suppose I could spend a few dollars.”
“You might not even have to do that,” I said. “Most attorneys will offer an initial consultation to determine if your problem is a legal matter they can help you with.”
“Thank you. I’ll remember that. It doesn’t sound so alarming when you put it that way. At any rate, I should have asked what I could do for you instead of launching into this whole long tale.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s natural for you to be concerned.”
“I appreciate your understanding.”
I realized I could probably go on like this with her for the rest of the afternoon. I’d comfort, reassure, and inform. She’d be grateful and thank me again. That way I could postpone having to pry into her personal business. “I’m interested in Sloan’s biological father.”
Margaret, unexpressive to begin with, seemed to turn to stone.
I leaned forward. “Margaret, listen to me. Just listen. What possible difference could it make after all these years? She’s gone. She won’t suffer any shame or embarrassment. I understand you feel protective, but I don’t see how it could matter.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because it all connects. It has to,” I said, though the idea hadn’t occurred to me until I opened my mouth and said so.
“How?”
“I don’t know how. Look at it this way: the players have been the same all these years. Bayard, Fritz, Troy, Austin, Poppy, and Sloan. Sloan dies. Austin disappears. Troy and Fritz go to prison, and when Fritz gets out, he ends up dead within weeks. These events are not random.”
I could see her considering the claim. I saw something flicker in her eyes and I wondered what piece of the puzzle she held. “Who is the guy?”
She shook her head once, like a horse shooing off a black fly.
I leaned forward and took her hands. “Just tell me.”
“Tigg Montgomery,” she whispered.
I sat back. The answer was unexpected and I considered the obvious implications. “You’re telling me Bayard and Sloan were siblings? He’s her half-brother?”
“Yes.”
I waited while she clasped and uncla
sped her hands and then she went on.
“I worked for him. This was before Joan divorced him, so the pregnancy would have put him in jeopardy financially. Santa Teresa was unsophisticated in those days. He was highly regarded, a pillar of the community, and I was his employee.”
“It must have been difficult.”
“It was hard. He was the love of my life and I couldn’t fault him for wanting to conceal the situation. I’d have done anything for him.”
“Thus the years of silence,” I said.
“I promised I’d keep quiet. In return, he promised to provide for her. Near the end, when he realized how sick he was, he came to me and said he’d make good. He intended to divide his estate between the two.”
“Did Bayard know this?”
“Tigg told him, but I have no idea what his reaction was. It must have come as a shock.”
“What about Sloan? Did she know?”
Margaret shook her head. “I didn’t want to tell her until I was certain Tigg would come through for her. Why get her hopes up when it might not come to pass? Why open the door if she couldn’t walk through? He put it off. He delayed. Maybe he got so sick, he wasn’t thinking straight. Maybe he was ambivalent or changed his mind. How would I know? I didn’t want her hopes dashed, which they would have been. I believe he was sincere. I think he meant well, but he didn’t act quickly enough. The new will was drawn up, but he died without signing it.”
“What was the age difference between Bayard and Sloan?”
“Two years.”
“I thought they were in the same class at Climp.”
“They were. Bayard was held back a year because of behavioral issues.”
“And when Sloan died?”
“Bayard blamed himself. He knew he should have stepped in. There were many opportunities to intervene and he did nothing.”
“But when Sloan died, all the money was his again, right?”
“It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the fact that he let her die when he could have prevented it.”
“Why were you so bitter about Fritz?”
“He was Austin’s instrument. Austin wanted her dead because, in his mind, she’d wounded him. She hadn’t actually done anything but he didn’t see it that way. Fritz was a puppet. There was no reason for him to do what he did, except to please Austin. Bayard hated Austin, which is why he testified at the trial.”
