“He must have been a tiny little guy,” commented Pender. He and Sid were standing before the altar of the Mission San Carlos Borromeo del Rio Carmelo, better known as the Carmel Mission, looking down at the sarcophagus of Father Junipero Serra, which was barely five feet long.
“And yet this simple, humble monk, this ‘tiny little guy,’ as you so eloquently phrased it, was responsible for the genocide of tens of thousands of California Indians.”
A family of tourists had entered the cool stone chapel and were gathering around the sarcophagus; Pender decided to egg Sid on. “Now, now, Sidney. Surely that’s a tad harsh.”
“One of the greatest mass murderers in the history of the Catholic Church,” said Sid. “Which is no mean company to keep. And now they’re talking about beatifying the evil little dwarf. I’m sorry, it just pisses me off.”
After the chapel, the Moorish bell tower. Pender took advantage of the elevation to call Dorie’s number; he tried it again as they strolled through the gardens behind the church. “I don’t understand it-she said she’d be home all day.”
“So you keep saying.”
“Maybe her phone’s out of order.”
“Maybe. Or maybe she took one look at you, decided to head for the hills.”
“You’ve always been jealous of my success with the ladies,” said Pender.
“Yeah, that and your wardrobe. Look, if you want to drive by her house, see if she’s okay, quit nudging and just say so.”
“Good idea,” said Pender, as if he hadn’t been dropping hints to that effect since they’d left Pebble Beach an hour earlier.
“Where’s Mary?” asked Pender, as they pulled into Dorie’s driveway, Sid behind the wheel of their rented car.
“Who’s Mary?”
“Mary Cassatt-Dorie’s car. Roadmaster wagon. Should be in the carport.”
“Let’s review, shall we?” Sid shifted into park, but did not cut the engine. “Lady’s not answering her phone and her car’s not in the driveway. What does that tell us, pard?”
But Pender had already unbuckled his seat belt. “Be right back.”
“It tells us the lady is out,” Sid explained to the now empty passenger seat, as he switched off the ignition. “It tells us the lady is not at home.”
Pender rang the bell, tried the front door, which was locked, then checked the windows for signs of forced entry as he walked around the side of the house. The back door was also locked. Okay, so maybe she flaked, he told himself. Or maybe it’s me, maybe I read too much into it when she said she’d be home all day.
But as he continued past the studio (once a sleeping porch, now glassed in and shuttered) and around the far side of the house, where a narrow, musty-smelling cement walkway was hedged in by a high board fence overgrown with ivy, keeping his eyes trained on the ground for blood spatters, footprints, whatever, he almost walked smack into the studio door, which had swung open, blocking the walkway.
Pender stuck his head through the doorway. Dim light, shutters closed, smell of paint, turpentine, linseed oil. “Dorie?”
No answer. He entered the studio, glanced around. Everything looked about the same as it had last night, when she’d given him the grand tour. The canvases she had intended to gesso today were still stacked against her workbench, and her plein air gear-portable easel, folding stool, walking stick-was leaning against the wall, just inside the door.
“Dorie?” he called again, mostly for form’s sake. He was pretty sure she wasn’t home-the house just felt empty-but he continued across the hall into the kitchen anyway, and as soon as he saw the puddle of dried vomit on the parquet floor, Pender understood, with a certainty inaccessible to anyone who hadn’t spent his entire adult life in law enforcement, that he had just half-assed his way into the middle of a crime scene.