Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 10 Page 10

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  The house was small, disappointingly so. Martinez hadn’t been expecting anything ritzy, but at least “Cattle Foreman Kirk Brown” should have been living in something western. A ranch house set on acres replete with tumbleweeds and cacti. Maybe a couple of horse stables. Instead, Walter Skinner, the man, had lived out his last years in a three-bedroom one-story bungalow in an anonymous residential block in the heart of the Valley. A simple house plopped onto a patch of recently fertilized lawn. A lifetime of nostalgia washed away by the stench of manure.

  Badge in hand, Martinez trod up a red-painted cement walkway, hopped the two steps up to the porch. Knocked on the door, and when no one answered, he knocked again. This time he heard someone telling him just a minute. An elderly voice—not feeble, just old. A minute later, she opened the door a crack. Just enough room for Martinez to show her his ID. Then the door opened all the way.

  She must have been under five feet, hunched over, hands resting on a cane. Her face was as round as the moon, lined but not overly wrinkled. Her cheeks had a dash of blush, her lips were painted pink. Her eyes were clear blue; her hair, thick and silver, was tied neatly into a bun. She wore a red turtleneck top over black pants, mules on her feet. Her hands were spotted, the fingers bony and bent. Though she had lived almost eight decades, she still struck a nice pose—all seventy-seven years and about eighty pounds of her.

  One palm remained on the knob of her cane, the other extended itself to Martinez. “Adelaide Skinner. Pleased to meet you, Detective.”

  Martinez took the birdlike hand. “Likewise. Thank you for letting me in.”

  “I was afraid you’d arrest me if I didn’t.” A brief smile. “Come in, come in before you catch a chill.”

  Martinez stepped inside. Adelaide closed the door. “Is this a condolence call from the police? Someone named Strapp already did that.”

  “My captain.”

  “A nice man. Sharp. A good politician.”

  Martinez went inside the house. “Actually, I came to talk to you, Mrs. Skinner.”

  “Me?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “No, I don’t mind.”

  She stood for a moment, caught her breath. “Fine. We’ll talk. First let me give you a tour. Which shouldn’t take very long. Because it’s a small house. My idea, not his. If it had been up to Walter, we would have been living on a grand-scale Ponderosa.”

  Martinez smiled to himself. Her admission made him feel better.

  “Not that Walter was the ranch type.” She walked in tiny steps, directing him toward the left. “But when you’re Kirk Brown you have an image to keep up.”

  She stopped, regarded Martinez.

  “Or maybe you’re too young to remember—”

  “Oh no, ma’am. I grew up on High Mountain.”

  She smiled. “Anyway, this…was Walter’s living room. It shows his personality, I think.”

  Martinez looked around, his heart beating like a little boy’s. The personification of his western hero, the room’s couches and chairs all done in brown suede and horn. The tables were fashioned from old driftwood. A handmade Navajo rug sat on a floor of knotty pine. A tremendous stone fireplace. And the walls. Loaded with pictures of Skinner as Cattle Foreman Kirk Brown, dressed in western gear, posing with past cowboy luminaries. The daytime ropers—Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, the Lone Ranger, Wild Bill Hickock, and Sky King. Then there were pictures of Skinner and the nighttime biggies, on the set of Wagon Train, Death Valley Days, and Paladin. Kirk with Bat Masterson and Sugarfoot and Mr. Favor. And Gunsmoke. Lots of pictures of Skinner on that set. With Matt Dillon and Chester and with the beautiful and alluring Miss Kitty. As a boy, Martinez dreamed of Kitty’s boobs, dreamed about them for many years. Then the series got old and so did Amanda Blake…

  The snapshots weren’t the only things on the walls. Sharing the space was a display of stuffed and mounted sports fish—a huge mother salmon, barracudas baring teeth, swordfish and marlins flashing weapons on their snouts. The bookshelves had been turned into showcases for more snapshots, also for Skinner’s fishing awards and trophies. Adelaide saw Martinez eyeing the shiny gold cups. She picked one up, hefted it in her hand.

  “Yeah, Walt was quite the Ishmael in his prime. When he got too old to fish for barracudas, he started netting in the Barbies.”

  She raised a gray eyebrow.

  “Which are practically the same thing as barracudas. I’m sure if it was up to Walt, he would have gladly pegged some of his tarts to the wall. ’Cause that’s what he was doing. Sports fishing of a different type. Much cheaper, I’ll say that much.”

  “Cheaper?” Martinez asked.

  “I see you never chartered a fishing boat.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Money for the boat, money for the captain, money for the trip, money for the supplies, money for this, money for that. The tarts are bargain-basement prices in comparison.”

  A deep sigh.

  “You had enough, Detective? I know I have.”

  “Anything you want, ma’am.”

  “I’ll show you the back bedrooms if you want. But it’s a bit of a walk for me and there isn’t much to see.”

  “You don’t have to bother—”

  “Just my bedroom, Walter’s bedroom, a spare room for our daughter and son-in-law or whichever grandchild happens to be in town. There’re three of them.” Her face lit up. “And of course, the newest. The first great-grandchild. A girl. Ashley.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Oh, she is such a love.” Her face turned wistful, a tear rolled down her cheek. “Walter adored her. He was a doting grandfather. A good father, too. And a decent husband. I think…”

  She looked up at the ceiling.

  “I think he just didn’t want to be an old man. Come, I’ll show you my living room.”

  They did an about-face, headed to the right. Once the space might have been used as a dining room. Now it functioned as separate entertaining quarters. Her quarters. Chintz wallpaper decorated with old-fashioned oil landscapes. Velvet couches with lace throws and satin pillows. Overstuffed chairs. Little tea tables covered with doilies. Pleated lampshades rimmed with fringes, silver picture frames, knickknacks and bowls of potpourri permeated with cinnamon. Probably drowned out the stink of the fertilizer.

  “Mind if we talk in here?” Adelaide lowered herself into a chair. “I’d prefer it.”

  “Not at all.” Martinez paused, wondering where to sit.

  “Just sit on the couch.” Adelaide pointed a twiglike finger in its direction. “It’s quite sturdy. Actually it’s lasted through twenty years of grandchildren jumping on it, so let’s amend that to very sturdy.”

  Martinez sank into down cushions. Had to right himself quickly to sit up. “Real soft.”

  “No support whatsoever. What the kids didn’t accomplish, gravity finished off. How rude of me. Can I get you some tea?”

  She took a bell from one of the doilied tables, rang it hard and furiously. A minute later, a thin young woman came into the room. She was wearing a white uniform and a nurse’s cap. Probably an LVN. “Yes, Mrs. Skinner?”

  “Two teas, Nicky. And bring in the cookies, too. The good ones. The butter cookies.”

  Nicky turned, disappeared.

  Adelaide grinned. “Isn’t this fun? Just like Arsenic and Old Lace.”

  Martinez smiled nervously. “Not too much like it, I hope.”

  Adelaide was puzzled, then she laughed. “No, no, no. That would be carrying things a little too far.”

  The room fell silent.

  Martinez said, “Truly, I am sorry for your loss.”

  “So am I.” Again, her eyes moistened. “I loved Walter. My bitterness is a hollow shell. If I remember the bad times, maybe I won’t miss the good so much.” Her lip trembled. “Faults and all, I did love him.”

  Martinez cleared his throat. “The monster who did this to your husband…to all the victims—”
>
  “Harlan Manz.” Adelaide’s face went hard. “Who is this…this…”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Martinez took out a photograph. “I know this might be hard for you. But can you look at a snapshot of him for me?”

  “Why?”

  “I’d like you to tell me if he looks familiar.”

  Martinez held out the picture. Slowly, she secured it, brought it into her line of vision.

  “Should he look familiar to me?” She looked up, saw her nurse carrying a tray of goodies. “Ah, Nicky’s back. What kind of tea did we make, love?”

  “Chamomile. It’s still brewing in the pot. And it’s very hot. Don’t burn your lip like you did last time.”

  “Scold, scold, scold.” She frowned. “Where are the butter cookies?”

  “They’re not on your diet. I brought tea biscuits—”

  “Oh, bosh!” She picked up a hard biscuit, nibbled it. “These taste like cardboard. I can’t serve these.”

  “I’m not hungry anyway,” Martinez said. “Tea’s just fine.”

  “It’s hot,” Nicky reiterated as she poured. “She likes it very hot.”

  “Only way to drink tea,” Adelaide insisted.

  Martinez cooled his heels as he drank hot tea. They made genteel chitchat—about the tea, about the biscuits, about butter cookies, and the weather. Then he reopened the conversation. “So, what do you think of the snapshot? Could you have seen Harlan Manz before?”

  Adelaide picked up the photograph again. “He might look slightly familiar. Now I know I’m old. But I’m not brain-dead yet. I don’t think I ever met anyone named Harlan Manz.”

  “How about Hart Mansfield?”

  The old woman furrowed her brow. “Now, why does that name sound familiar?”

  “He taught tennis at Greenvale Country Club.”

  A slow smile formed on her lips. “Detective, do I look like a tennis player?”

  Martinez felt his face go hot. “He also tended bar there. For parties and charity occasions.”

  Adelaide continued to think, then she turned pale. “Yes…yes, he did. Oh my! Oh my, oh my—”

  “What, Mrs. Skinner?”

  She brought her hand to her chest. “Oh my goodness!”

  Martinez stood up. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

  “Oh yes…I’m okay…this is the bartender Walter had words with at the Hausner party.”

  Martinez felt his heart hammer. He picked up his notebook, scribbled furiously. “Words? What kind of words?”

  “Nothing earth-shattering. Just that I remember him…because I talked to him…for a minute or so after Walter lost his temper.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, the usual. The line at the bar was moving too slowly. Walter was in a bad mood and made a fuss. Something like ‘Stop making time with the girls and gimme my Scotch!’”

  She looked down.

  “Walter called the boy a nitwit. He was half drunk and half joking. But he said it in a loud voice, and I think it embarrassed the poor child—”

  She stopped herself, her face angry, her hands shaking, her eyes far away.

  “Anyway, I told this…this whoever he is…that Walter was just a little grumpy. He seemed to take my explanation with equanimity and went about his business. I went about mine.”

  She focused her attention back to Martinez. “You couldn’t possibly think that…he remembered!”

  Martinez played with his mustache. “It doesn’t seem real important. Did they ever have any other dealings with each other?”

  “Not that I know of.” She thought a moment. “But I do know that…” She closed her eyes, then opened them. “That Walter went to the club with other women at times.”

  “I see.”

  “So it’s possible that Walter could have had other runins with this…this…this…”

  “Did Walter ever mention Harlan/Hart again to you?”

  “No, he didn’t. Still, it’s eerie. A random crime that cuts off Walter’s life. And here I live, having met my husband’s murderer face-to-face.”

  Martinez nodded.

  Adelaide said, “You don’t think it’s random, do you?”

  “We’re investigating all aspects of the case—”

  “A two-year-old insult? It doesn’t seem like a decent reason for murder!”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Still…” She picked up her teacup, sipped quietly. “You never know what motivates people to do such vile deeds.”

  “You’re saying that this whole bloody mess was a conspiracy?”

  Marge looked out the window. She was on the tenth floor of a fifteen-story building, had a view of other tall buildings and a peek at the distant mountains. Ashman/Reynard was located in an industrial park in Woodland Hills, one of the older parks in the Valley, old in these parts defined as built twenty years ago. Her eyes returned to Brenda Miller, executive veep. She was dressed in a red power suit, wore black stockings and pumps that could have been lethal weapons. A petite woman in her thirties with short dark hair, active brown eyes, and good skin.

  Oliver said, “No, we’re not saying that. We were just wondering if you or anyone else at Ashman/Reynard had ever had dealings with Harlan Manz prior to this incident?”

  “Dealings where? At Estelle’s?”

  “Anywhere,” Marge said.

  “What kind of dealings? Or are you really asking me if I remember Harlan? The answer is yes, I remember him. Cocky kid. He worked the bar there.”

  “At Estelle’s?” Oliver said, writing as he spoke.

  “Yeah, at Estelle’s.” Brenda frowned, rested her elbows on her desk. “Isn’t that what we’re talking about?”

  “He also tended bar for Greenvale Country Club. Your company’s a corporate member at Greenvale,” Marge said.

  “I know that.” Brenda was irritated.

  “Do you remember Harlan Manz from Greenvale?” Marge asked. “He might have been using the name Hart Mansfield.”

  Brenda took a breath, then let it out slowly. “I knew him…took a couple of tennis lessons from him.”

  Marge tried to hide her surprise. This might prove to be more productive than she had originally thought. She slowed it down. “Tell me about Harlan.”

  “What’s to tell?” She laughed but it lacked mirth. “Good ole Hart. Mr. Charmer. He was there for maybe…one summer. Then, poof, he was gone. Like most of Greenvale’s employees. All of them…pretty people without brains.”

  She became quiet.

  “About…oh, I don’t know…a year later, I took some clients out to Estelle’s. And there was Harlan tending bar. I gave him a hug.” She shuddered involuntarily. “Gives me the creeps thinking about it. Anyway, I saw him at Estelle’s maybe half a dozen times. Then he was gone. You know these hangers-on. They’re always moving…moving.”

  “Ever have any words with him?” Oliver asked.

  Brenda thought a moment. “Not that I can remember.”

  “So you don’t recall ever offending him?”

  “I offend lots of people. Him, specifically?” She shrugged.

  “Did he ever ask you for a handout?” Oliver said. “Could be you refused?”

  She hesitated. “You know, I do remember him talking about needing temporary work…until he got his big break.” She smiled sarcastically. “I told him to come by the office. We can always use temp workers. He never took me up on it. I knew he wouldn’t. Must have made that offer to twenty people and not one of them has ever been sincere.”

  Brenda got up, walked over to the window, her gaze focused outward.

  “All of them. Male and female bimbos. Always with the big break just around the corner. Meanwhile, they ain’t getting any smarter. But they are getting older. New studs and starlets come in. See it all the time. Competition’s fierce out there.”

  The room was quiet.

  Marge said, “So you took tennis lessons from him.”

  “A couple of times. Hart wa
s strictly fill-in. Good player, though. Strong legs. Who would have thought…”

  Marge said, “Did he ever try to pick you up?”

  “Me?” She shook her head. “No. As I recall, he went in for the older set—fifty-plus with big bucks. And he also went for the cuties. I don’t fit into either category. Besides, I’m way too threatening for him. Too independent and successful.”

  Marge said, “Did he ever try to pick up Wendy Culligan?”

  “I don’t know. Ask Wendy.”

  “I did,” Marge said. “She said no. But I don’t know if I believe her. I didn’t press her because she’s still in bad shape. No sense adding insult to injury. But I’m asking you, Ms. Miller. Did Harlan ever try to pick up Wendy Culligan?”

  Oliver looked at Dunn questioningly. First he had heard about a connection between Wendy and Harlan. When Marge gave him a quick wink, he realized she was winging it.

  Brenda appeared uncomfortable. “If Wendy said no, it’s no.”

  Marge hesitated. “Are you being straight with me, Ms. Miller?”

  Brenda turned to Marge, her face tense and hard. “Listen, Detective. The poor kid has gone through major trauma…lost four pounds in three days. She doesn’t eat, can’t sleep or work. I’ve begged her to see a specialist. The company would pay for it. Wendy’s a real asset here, one of our top sellers. But she refuses. Right now, the woman can barely function. Let’s not make things worse for her.”

  “That’s why I’m asking you these questions and not her.”

  Oliver said, “If there’s a connection, it’s going to come out. Why don’t you tell us the story before some other jerk gets wind of it and leaks it to the tabloids for money—”

  “What?” Brenda spat out. “Who’d do that?”

  “I’m just talking theoretically—”

  “Are you talking about yourself?” Miller’s eyes were fire. “You got ambitions, Detective?”

  “If I did, think I’d be talking to you about them?” Oliver laughed. “Believe it or not, Ms. Miller, I have integrity.” Under his breath, he added, “It’s about all I do have.”

  Brenda softened, looked at Marge. “Is he married?”