I scanned the room quickly, taking in as much as I could. Two table lamps had been left on. This had to be Bennet's bedroom. He was still in possession of all the paraphernalia from his boyhood hobbies. Model airplanes, model cars, stacks of vintage comic books, early issues of MAD magazine, Little League trophies. He'd framed a paint-by-numbers likeness of Jimmy Durante and a color snapshot of himself at the age of thirteen wearing spiffy black dress pants, a pink dress shirt, and a black bolo tie. His bulletin board was still hanging on the back of his closet door. Tacked to the cork were various newspaper headlines about the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr., and Bobby Kennedy. There were photographs of the Apollo 8 spacecraft the day it was launched from Cape Kennedy. A framed movie poster from The Odd Couple still hung above his unmade bed. It wasn't hard to pinpoint the peak year in his life. There was no memorabilia beyond 1968.
I flicked on the overhead light and crossed the room, placing my handbag on the floor near my feet. His desk was built-in and ran along the front wall from one side of the room to the other, punctuated by two windows. Bookshelves had been hung on the wall above the desk. Most of the books looked dated, the titles suggestive of textbooks accumulated over the years. I let my gaze skip across the spines. Ring of Bright Water, Maxwell; No Room in the Ark, Moorehead; Stalking the Edible Life, Gibbons; The Sea Around Us, Carson. Little or no fiction. Not surprising somehow. Bennet didn't strike me as intellectual or imaginative. A personal computer occupied his desk at center stage, complete with an oversized printer. The machine had been shut down and the glassy gray screen of the monitor reflected distorted slices of the light from the hall door. Everything was a jumble; bills, loose papers, invoices, and stacks of unopened mail everywhere. I spotted the typewriter to the left, covered with a black plastic typewriter "cozy" complete with dust. A stack of books had been placed on top.
I backed up and stuck my head out into the hallway. I did a quick survey, seeing no one, and then closed myself into Bennet's room. If I were caught, there was no way I was going to explain my presence. I went back to the desk, lifted the stack of books from the typewriter, and removed the cover. The machine was an old black high-shouldered Remington with a manual return. Bader must have hung on to the damn thing for forty years. I reached into my bag and removed a piece of blank paper from the folder. I rolled it into the machine, typing precisely the phrases and sentences I'd typed before. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The typewriter made a racket that seemed remarkably noisy, but it couldn't be helped. With the door to the hall closed, I thought I was safe. Dear Miss Millhone. Max Outhwaite. Even at a glance, I knew I was in business. The a and the i were both askew. This was the machine I'd been looking for. I rolled the paper from the machine, folded it, and slipped it in my pocket. Out of the corner of my eye, the name Outhwaite suddenly popped into view. Was I seeing things? I checked the line of textbooks again, squinting as I pulled out the two books that caught my attention. Ring of Bright Water, Gavin Maxwell, was the first in that row. In the middle, about six books down, was Atlantic: History of an Ocean. The author was Leonard Outhwaite. I stared, feeling rooted in place. Gavin Maxwell and Leonard Outhwaite. Maxwell Outhwaite.
I slipped the cover over the typewriter and put the stack of books back in place. I heard a low rumble, like thunder. I paused. Empty coat hangers began to ring, tinkling together in the closet like wind chimes. All the joints in the house began to squeak quietly and the window glass gave a sharp rattle where the putty had shrunk away from the panes. Nails and wood screws chirped. I put a hand on the bookshelf to steady myself. Under me, the whole house shifted back and forth, perhaps no more than an inch, but with a movement that felt like a sudden gust of strong wind or a train rocking on a track. I didn't feel any fear, but I was alert, wondering if I'd have time to clear the premises. An old house like this must have survived many a temblor, but you never quite knew what was coming with these things. So far, I pegged it in the three- or four-point range. As long as it didn't go on and on, it shouldn't do much damage. Lights flickered faintly as if wires were loose and touching one another intermittently. The strobe effect sparked a series of jerky pale blue images, in the midst of which a dark shape appeared across the room. I peered, blinking, trying to see clearly as the shadow moved toward one corner and then blended into the wall.
I made a small sound in my throat, paralyzed. The trembling gradually ceased and the lights stabilized. I clung to the bookshelf and leaned my head weakly on my arm, trying to shake off the frosty feeling that was creeping down my spine. Any minute, I expected to hear Enid calling from the kitchen stairs. I pictured Myrna on her feet, the three of us comparing notes about the earthquake. I didn't want either one of them coming up to search for me. I snagged my handbag and crossed the room. I moved out into the hall, looking quickly in both directions. I locked the door behind me, cranking the key in the lock so hard it nearly bent under my hand.
I ran down the hall on tiptoe, making a hasty detour into Bader's room. I put the key back in the door where I'd found it, then crossed swiftly into his home office. I opened a file cabinet and shoved the folder between two unrelated files where I could find it later. I crossed the room again and went out into the corridor. I walked quickly toward the heavy drapes at the end of the hall, pushed my way through the arch, and hurried along the back corridor. I clattered down the stairs and into the kitchen. There was no sign of Myrna. Enid was calmly pouring a thick yellow batter into the springform pan.
I put my hand on my chest to still my breathing. "Jesus. That was something. I thought for a minute there we were really in for it."
She looked up at me blankly. I could tell she didn't have the faintest idea what I was talking about.
I stopped in my tracks. "The temblor," I said.
"I wasn't aware of any temblor. When was this?"
"Enid, you're kidding. Don't do this to me. It must have been at least four points on the Richter scale. Didn't the lights flicker down here?"
"Not that I noticed." I watched her use a rubber spatula to sweep the last of the batter from the bowl into the pan.
"The whole house was shifting. Didn't you feel anything?"
She was silent for a moment, her gaze dropping to her bowl. "You hang on to people, don't you?"
"What?"
"You have trouble letting go."
"I do not. That's not a bit true. People tell me I'm too independent for my own good."
She was shaking her head before I reached the end of the sentence. "Independence has nothing to do with hanging on," she said.
"What are you talking about?"
"Ghosts don't haunt us. That's not how it works. They're present among us because we won't let go of them."
"I don't believe in ghosts," I said, faintly.
"Some people can't see the color red. That doesn't mean it isn't there," she replied.
When I reached the office, Dietz was sitting in my swivel chair with his feet up on the desk. One of the sandwich packets had been opened and he was munching on a BLT. I still hadn't eaten lunch so I reached for the other sandwich. I removed a soft drink from the refrigerator and sat down across from him.
"How'd you do at the Dispatch?"
He laid the four Maddison obituaries on the desk so I could study them. "I had Jeff Katzenbach dig through the files. Mother's maiden name was Bangham, so I went over to the library and checked the city directory for other Banghams in the area. None. Three of those obits I've verified at the Hall of Records, checking death certificates. Claire's still a question mark."
"How so?" I popped the top on my soda can and began to pick at the cellophane and plastic packet in which my sandwich was sealed.
Dietz was saying, "There's no suggestion how she died. I'd be interested in seeing if we can get the suicide confirmed just to put that one to bed. I got the name of a P.I. in Bridgeport, Connecticut, and left a lengthy message with her service. I'm hoping someone will return my call."
"What difference does it make how she died?" I tried biting the seal on the cellophane. Was this kiddie-proof, like poison? Dietz held his hand out for the wrapped sandwich and I passed it across the desk to him.
"Suppose she was murdered? Suppose she was the victim of a hit-and-run accident?" He freed the sandwich and gave it back to me.
"You've got a point," I said. I paused to eat while I reread the information. The obits were in date order, starting with the father's death in late November 1967. Dietz had had all four of them copied onto one page.
MADDISON, Francis M., 53,
departed suddenly on Tuesday, November 21. Loving, adored husband of 25 years to Caroline B. Maddison; beloved father to daughters, Claire and Patricia. He was a service manager at Colgate Automotive Center and a member of the Community Christian Church. He was much loved and will be missed by family and friends. Funeral: 11:30 A.M. Friday. In lieu of flowers, donations to the American Heart Association would be appreciated.
I glanced up at him and said, "Fifty-three. That's young."
"They were all young," Dietz said.
MADDISON, Patricia Anne, 17,
died Thursday, May 9, at Santa Teresa Hospital. She is survived by her loving mother, Caroline B. Maddison, and a devoted sister, Claire Maddison. At the family's request, services will be private.
MADDISON, Caroline B., 58,
died Tuesday, August 29, at her home after a lengthy illness. She was born on January 22 to Helen and John Bangham, in Indianapolis, Indiana, graduating from Indiana University with a degree in home economics. Caroline was a devoted wife, mother, a homemaker, and a Christian. Preceded in death by her husband, Francis M. Maddison, and her daughter Patricia Anne Maddison. Survived by loving daughter Claire Maddison of Bridgeport, Connecticut. No services are planned. Contributions may be made to Hospice of Santa Teresa.
MADDISON, Claire, 39,
formerly of Santa Teresa, died Saturday, March 2, in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Daughter of the late Francis M. and Caroline B. Maddison, Claire was preceded in death by her only sister, Patricia. Claire graduated from Santa Teresa High School in 1963 and the University of Connecticut in 1967. She pursued her secondary teaching credential and M.A. in Romance Languages at Boston College. She taught French and Italian at a private girls' academy in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Service, Tuesday in the Memorial Park Chapel.
I read Claire's death notice twice. "This was just last year."
"Thank goodness she'd gone back to her maiden name," he said. "I don't know how we'd have found her if she'd been using her ex-hubby's moniker."
"Whoever he was," I said. "She'd probably been divorced for ages. There wasn't much family to speak of. You watch the names of the survivors diminish until there's no one left. It's depressing, isn't it?"
"I thought the mother might have surviving family members in Indiana, but I can't seem to get a line on them," Dietz said. "I tried directory assistance in Indianapolis. There weren't any Banghams listed, so at least on the face of it, we're not talking about a large close-knit clan. just to be on the safe side, I checked the CALI Directory and put a call through to an Indianapolis private investigator. I asked him to check Caroline Bangham's birth records to see if that nets us anything. We might not glean much, but he said he'd get back to us."
I made a face. "You know what? I think we're spinning our wheels on this one. I just don't buy the idea that some distraught family member would seek revenge eighteen years later."
"Maybe not," he said. "If it weren't for Bader's death, there wouldn't have been a reason to look for Guy at all. He Might have gone on living in Marcella for the rest of his days."
"It wasn't strictly Bader's death. It was the will," I said.
"Which brings us back to the five million."
"I guess it does," I said. "I'll tell you what hurts. I feel like I was part of what happened to Guy."
"Because you found him."
"Exactly. I didn't cause his death, in any strict sense of the word, but if it hadn't been for me, he'd be safe the way I see it."
"Hey, come on. That's not true. Tasha would have hired herself some other detective. Maybe not as good as you…"
"Don't suck up."
"Look, someone would have found him. It just happened to be you."
"I suppose," I said. "It still feels like shit."
"I'm sure it does."
The phone rang. Dietz answered and then handed me the handset, mouthing the name Enid.
I nodded and took the phone. "Hi, Enid. This is Kinsey. How are you?"
"Not so good," she said, fretfully. "Did Myrna call you?"
"Not as far as I know. Let me check my messages." I put a hand across the mouthpiece. "Did the Maleks' housekeeper call or leave a message for me?"
Dietz shook his head and I went back to Enid. "No, there's nothing here."
"Well, that's odd. She swore she was going to call you. I made her promise she would. I went to the supermarket and I was only gone fifteen or twenty minutes. She said she'd be here when I got back, but she's. gone and there's no sign of her. I thought you might have asked her to come in."
"Sorry. I never heard from her. What's she want to talk to me about?"
"I'm not sure. I know something's been bothering her, but she wouldn't be specific. Her car's still out back. That's what's so strange," she said.
"Could she have gone to the doctor's? If she really wasn't feeling well, she might have called a cab."
"It's always possible, but you'd think she would have waited to have me take her. This is just so unlike her. She told me she'd help me with dinner. I have a meeting at seven and I have to be out of here early. We discussed it in detail."
"Maybe she's out walking somewhere on the property."
"I thought of that," she said. "I went out there myself, calling, but she's disappeared."
"Enid, let's be realistic. I don't think being gone less than an hour constitutes a disappearance."
"I'm worried something's happened."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. That's why I called you. Because I'm scared."
"What's the rest?"
"That's it."
"No, it's not. You're leaving something out. I mean, so far this doesn't make sense. Do you think she's been abducted by aliens, or what?'
I could hear her hesitation. "I got the impression she knew something about the murder."
"Really? She said that?"
"She hinted as much. She was too nervous to say more. I think she saw something she wasn't supposed to see that night."
"She told me she was sleeping."
"Well, she was. She'd taken some pain medication and a sleeping pill. She slept like the dead, but then she remembered later that she woke up at one point to find someone standing at the foot of her bed."
"Wait a minute, Enid. You're not talking about this woo-woo stuff…"
"Not at all. I promise. This is what she said. She said she thought she'd been dreaming, but the more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that it was real."
"What was?"
"The person she saw."
"I gathered that, Enid. Who?"
"She wouldn't tell me. She felt guilty she hadn't said anything before now."
"Myrna feels guilty about everything," I said.
"I know," Enid said. "But I think she was also worried about the consequences. She thought she'd be in danger if she opened her mouth. I told her to tell the police, in that case, but she was afraid to do that. She said she'd rather talk to you first and then she'd talk to them. It's not like her to go off without a word."
"You did check her room?"
"That's the first thing I did. And that's the other thing that bothers me. Something doesn't seem right. Myrna's very fussy. Everything has to be just so with her. I don't mean to criticize, but it's the truth."
"Her room is messed up?"
"It's not exactly messed up, but it doesn't look right."
"Who else is there? Is anybody home besides you?"
"Bennet was here, but I think he's gone. He came in for lunch. I fixed him a sandwich and he took it up to his room. He must have left again while I was at the market. Christie and Donovan are due back any minute. I don't mean to be a bother, but I don't feel right about this."
Dietz was giving me an inquisitive look. Having eavesdropped on my end of the conversation with her, he was suitably mystified. "Hang on a second." I put a palm across the mouthpiece. "How long will you be here?"
"At least an hour," he said. "If you'd ever get off the phone, I might get this call from the East Coast that I've been waiting for. What's the problem?"
"It's Myrna. I'll tell you in a minute." I went back to Enid. "Why don't I come over there," I said. "She might have mentioned something to Christie before they left for the funeral home. You're sure she didn't leave a note?"
"Positive."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
"I don't want you to go to any trouble."
"It's no trouble."
I took my sandwich and soda with me, driving with one hand while I finished my lunch. I kept the chilled soda can between my thighs. Shifting gears is a pain in the ass when you're trying to dine in style. At least I knew the route. I could have done it with my eyes shut.
Enid had left the gate open for me. I pulled into the courtyard and left my car in a spot I was beginning to think should be reserved for me. Donovan's pickup truck was parked to one side of the garage. At first, I thought he was back, but then I remembered that he'd been driving the BMW when he left. Both the open garages were still empty. The driveway angled up along the house on the left. For the first time, I noticed a separate parking pad nearby with spaces for three vehicles. Currently, I could see a bright yellow VW convertible and what looked like a Toyota, a pale metallic blue, maybe three or four years old.
Enid had the backdoor ajar and was standing in the opening. She'd taken off her apron to do the marketing and she now wore a jacket as though chilled by circumstance.
I moved into the utility room. "Still no sign of her?" I asked, following Enid through a door that opened into a rear hall.
"Not a peep," she said. "I'm sorry to be a bother. I'm probably being silly."
"Don't worry about it. You've had a murder in the house. Everybody's nerves are on edge. Is one of those cars out there hers?"
"The Toyota," she said. She paused in front of a door at the end of the hall. "This is hers."
"Have you tried knocking on her door since we talked?"
Enid shook her head. "I think I scared myself. I didn't want to do anything until you arrived."
"Geez, Enid. You're scaring me," I said. I knocked on the door, my head tilted against the panel, listening for sounds that might indicate Myrna was back. I was reluctant to barge right in. She might be napping or naked, just out of the shower. I didn't want to catch her with her dentures out or her wooden leg unstrapped. I tapped again with one knuckle. "Myrna?"
Dead silence.
I tried the knob, which turned easily. I opened the door a crack and peered around the frame. The sitting room was empty. Across from me, the door to the bedroom was standing open and the room appeared to be empty. "Myrna, you in here? It's Kinsey Millhone," I said. I waited a moment and then crossed the room. In passing, I put my hand on the television set, but the housing was cold.
"I told you she wasn't here," Enid said.
I looked into the bedroom. I could see why Enid felt something was wrong. On the surface, both rooms seemed tidy and untouched, but there was something amiss. It was the little things, the minutiae. The bed was made, but the coverlet was not quite smooth. A picture on the wall was ever so slightly tilted.
"When was the last time you actually saw her?" I leaned down and peeked under the bed, feeling like an idiot. There was nothing under there except an old pair of bedroom slippers.
"Must have been noon."
"Was Bennet here at that point?"
"I don't remember. He was gone when I got back from the market. That's all I know."
In the sitting room, the shade on the floor lamp was askew and it was clear from the dents in the carpet the base had been moved from its usual place. Had there been a struggle of some kind? I looked in the closet. Enid followed me like a kid, about three steps back, possibly feeling the same eerie sense of intrusion that I felt.
"Can you tell if all her clothes are here? Anything missing? Shoes? Coat?"
Enid studied the rack. "I think everything's here," she said and then pointed. "That's her suitcase and her garment bag."
"What about her handbag?"
"It's in the kitchen. I knew you'd ask so I opened it. Her wallet's in there, driver's license, cash, all that stuff."
I moved into the bathroom. I heard a little pop under my shoe, followed by the kind of scratching sound that makes you think of broken glass on ceramic floor tile.
I looked down. There was a touch of dry soil, as from the bottom of a shoe, and two tiny pieces of gravel. "Be careful. I don't want us to disturb that," I said to Enid, who was crowding into the room on my heels.
"Was someone in here?"
"I don't know yet. It could be."
"It looks like someone tried to straighten up and didn't do a very good job of it," she said. "Myrna always left notes if she was going somewhere. She wouldn't just walk out."
"Don't start babbling. I'm trying to concentrate."
I checked the medicine cabinet. All the obvious toiletries were still sitting on the shelf: toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, odds and ends of makeup, prescription bottles. The shower curtain was bone-dry, but a dark blue washcloth had been draped over the rim of the basin and it had been recently used. I peered closely at the basin. There was a trace of water around the small brass ring fixture for the outflow valve. Unless my eyes were deceiving me, the water was ever so faintly pink. I lifted the washcloth and squeezed out some of the excess water. There was a splash of bright red against the white of the basin. "You better call 9-1-1. This is blood," I said.
While Enid went off to call the police, I closed the door to Myrna's apartment and I retraced my steps through the utility room to the backdoor. In the kitchen, I could hear Enid on the phone, sounding shaken and slightly shrill. Someone must have been waiting to catch Myrna alone. Outside, I crossed the small back patio and took a right at the driveway. Myrna's car was locked, but I circled the exterior, peering in at the front seats and back seats. Both were empty. Nothing on the dashboard. I was curious if the trunk was locked, but I didn't want to touch it. Let the cops do that. To the right, the driveway formed a dead end with space for three more cars. Beyond that, I saw a long line of drab pink stucco wall and a tangle of woods. Suppose she'd been killed in haste? What would you do with the body?
I headed back toward the garages. Donovan's pickup was parked much closer to the front of the house than the back. There was something about the traces of gravel and dried soil that bothered me. I put a hand out. The hood of the pickup was warm. I walked around the truck, hands behind my back as I scrutinized the exterior. The bed liner was littered with gravel and dead leaves. I peered over the tailgate, looking closely at the liner. There was what looked like a dark smear on one edge. I left that alone. Whatever had happened, they couldn't blame Jack this time.
In the distance, I heard the rumble of a motorcycle and moments later, I looked up to see Bennet roaring down the drive on Jack's Harley-Davidson. I moved away from the truck, watching as he went through his parking ritual. His black leather gloves looked as clumsy as oven mitts. He pulled them off and laid them on the seat, placing his helmet on top. He didn't seem that thrilled to see me. "What are you doing here?"
"Enid called, about Myrna. When did you last see her?"
"I saw her at breakfast. I didn't see her at lunch. Enid told me she wasn't feeling well. What's going on?"
"I have no idea. Apparently, she's disappeared. Enid called the police. They'll be here shortly, I'd imagine."
"The police? What for?"
"Why don't you save the bullshit for the cops," I said.
"Wait a minute. 'Bullshit'? What's the matter with you? I'm tired of being treated like a creep," he said.
I started walking away.
"Where are you going?"
"What difference does it make? If I stand here another minute, I'll just end up insulting you."
Bennet walked alongside me. "That wouldn't, be a first. I heard about your meeting with Paul. He was pissed as hell."
"So what?" I said.
"I know you think we did something."
"Of course I do!"
He touched my arm. "Look. Hang on a minute and let's talk about this."
"Go ahead and talk, Bennet. I'd love to hear what you have to say."
"All right. Okay. I might as well level with you because the truth isn't nearly as bad as you think."
"How do you know what I think? I think you cheated the Maddisons out of fifty thousand dollars' worth of rare documents."
"Now wait a minute. Now wait. We didn't mean any harm. It was just a prank. We wanted to go to Vegas, but we were broke. We didn't have a dime between us. All we wanted was a few bucks. We were only kids," he said.
"Kids? You weren't kids. You were twenty-three years old. You committed a felony. Is that your rationalization, calling it a prank? You should have gone to prison."
"I know. I'm sorry. It got out of hand. We never thought we could pull it off and by the time we realized how serious it was, we didn't have the courage to admit what we'd done."
"It didn't seem to bother you to blame Guy," I said.
"Listen, he was gone. And he'd done all that other stuff. The family was down on him and Dad just assumed. We were assholes. I know that. We were wrong. I've never felt right about it since."
"Well, that absolves you," I said. "What happened to the letters? Where are they?"
"Paul has them at his place. I told him to destroy them, but he couldn't bear to do it. He's been afraid to put them in circulation."
I could feel my mouth pull down with disgust. "So you didn't even get the money? You are a creep," I said. "Let's talk about Patty."
"The baby wasn't mine. I swear. I never screwed her."
"Paul did, didn't he? And so did Jack."
"A lot of fellas screwed her. She didn't care."
"Not Guy. He never laid a hand on her," I said.
"Not Guy," he repeated. "I guess that's true."
"So whose baby was it?"
"Probably Jack's," Bennet said. "But that doesn't mean he killed Guy. I didn't either. I wouldn't do that," he said.
"Oh, come on. Grow up. You never accepted any responsibility for what happened, the whole lot of you. You let Guy take the blame for everything you did. Even when he came back, you never let him off the hook."
"What was I supposed to say? It was too late by then."
"Not for him, Bennet. Guy was still alive at that point. Flow, it's too late."
I looked up to see Enid standing by the hedge. I had no idea how much she'd overheard. She said, "Your partner's on the phone. The police are on the way."
I moved past Enid and walked down the short flight of stairs, crossing the patio to the kitchen door. I found the handset on the counter and I picked it up. "It's me. What's going on?"
"Are you all right? You sound bad."
"I can't stop to tell you. It would take too long. I should have fallen on Bennet and beat the man to death."
"Catch this. I just had a chat with the private investigator in Bridgeport, Connecticut. This gal was at the courthouse when she called in to pick up messages. She went right to the clerk and filled out a request for Claire Maddison's death certificate."
"What was the cause of death?"
"There wasn't one," he said. "As long as she was at it, she made a couple more phone calls and got her last known address. According to the utility company, Claire was living in Bridgeport until last March."
"How did the Dispatch end up printing her obituary?"
"Because she sent them one. No one ever asked for proof. I called the Dispatch myself and verified the whole procedure. They take down the information and they print it as given."
"She made the whole thing up?"
"I'm sure she did," he said.
"So where did she go?"
"I'm just getting to that. This PI in Bridgeport picked up one more little item. Claire never worked as a teacher. She was a private-duty nurse."
"Shit."
"That's what I said. I'm coming over. Don't do anything until I get there," he said.
"What's to do? I can't move."
How long did I stand at the kitchen counter with the phone in my hand? In a flash, I could see how all the pieces fit. I was missing a few answers, but the rest of them finally fell into place. Somehow Claire Maddison heard about Bader's terminal illness. She shipped the Dispatch an obituary just to close that door. She turned herself into Myrna Sweetzer, packed her personal belongings, and headed back to Santa Teresa. Bader was difficult. As a patient, he was probably close to impossible. He must have gone through a number of private duty nurses, so it was only a matter of Myrna's biding her time. Once she was in the house, the family was hers. She had waited a long time, but the chance to wreak havoc must have been something she savored.
I tried to put myself in her place. Where was she now? She'd accomplished much of her mission, so it was time to fade. She'd left her car, her handbag, and all her clothes. What would I do if I were Claire Maddison? The whole psychodrama of the missing Myrna was just a cover for her escape. She must have pictured the cops digging up the property, looking for a body that was never there. To have the disappearance play out properly, she had to make an exit without being seen, which ruled out a taxicab. She might steal a car, but that was risky on the face of it. And how would she leave town? Would she hitchhike? A motorist passing through might never be aware that anyone was missing or presumed dead. Plane, train, or bus?
She might have a confederate, but much of what she'd done to date required a solitary cunning. She'd been gone more than an hour-plenty of time to walk through the back of the property to the road. I lifted my head. I could hear voices in the foyer. The cops had probably arrived. I didn't want to go through this whole rigmarole. Enid was saying, "It was just so unlike her so I called…"
I slipped out the backdoor, race walking across the patio and out to the driveway. I got in my car and turned the key in the ignition. My brain was clicking along, trying to make sense of circumstances. Claire Maddison was alive and had been living in Santa Teresa since last spring. I wasn't really sure how she'd managed the setup, but I was relatively certain she was responsible for Guy's death. She'd also gone to some lengths to implicate the others, setting it up so that Jack looked guilty, with Bennet as the backup in case the evidence of Jack's culpability failed to persuade the police.
The gate swung open in front of me. I reached the road and turned left, trying to picture the way the property was laid out in relation to the surrounding terrain. I didn't imagine she'd head into the Los Padres National Forest. The mountain was too steep and too inhospitable. It was possible, of course, that in the last eighteen years, Claire Maddison had become an expert at living in the wild. Maybe she planned to make a new home for herself among the scrub oaks and chaparral, feasting on wild berries, sucking moisture from cactus pads. More likely, she'd simply crossed the few acres of undeveloped land that lay between the Maleks' and the road. Bader had purchased everything within range, so it was possible she was still trudging across acreage he owned.
I tried to think what she'd do once she hit the main artery. She could choose left or right, setting out in either direction on foot. She could have hidden a bicycle somewhere in the brush. She might depend on her ability to thumb a ride. Maybe she'd called a taxicab and had it waiting when she emerged on the road. Again, I dismissed that option because I didn't really think she'd take the risk. She wouldn't want to have anyone who could identify or describe her later. She might have purchased another vehicle and parked on a side street, gassed up and ready to be driven away. I tried to remember what I knew of her and realized just how little it was. She was approaching forty. She was overweight. She made no effort to enhance her personal appearance. Given cultural standards, she'd made herself invisible. Ours is a society in which slimness and beauty are equated with status, where youth and charm are rewarded and remembered with admiration. Let a woman be drab or slightly overweight and the collective eye slides right by, forgetting afterward. Claire Maddison had achieved the ultimate disguise because, aside from the physical, she'd adopted the persona of the servant class. Who knows what conversations she'd been privy to straightening the bed pillows, changing the sheets. She'd run the household, served canapés, and freshened the drinks while the lords and ladies of the house had talked on and on, oblivious to her presence because she wasn't one of them. For Claire, it had been perfect. Their dismissal of her would have fueled her bitterness and hardened her determination to take revenge. Why should this family, largely made up of fakes, enjoy the privileges of money while she had nothing? Because of them, she'd been cheated of her family, her medical career. She'd been robbed, violated, and abused, and for this she blamed Guy.
I was now on the two-lane road that I was guessing defined the Malek property along its southernmost boundary. I found a city map in my glove compartment and flapped it open as I drove. I made a clumsy fold and propped it up against the steering wheel, searching for routes while I tried not to ram into telephone poles. I started with the obvious, turning off at the first street, driving in a grid. I should have waited for Dietz. One of us could have been watching for pedestrians while the other drove. How far could she get?
I returned to the main road and drove on for maybe half a mile. I spotted her tramping along a hundred yards ahead of me. She was wearing jeans and good walking shoes, toting a backpack, no hat. I rolled down the window on the passenger side. As soon as she heard the rattle of my VW, she glanced once in my direction and then stared doggedly at the pavement in front of her.
"Myrna, I want to talk to you."
"Well, I don't want to talk to you."
I idled alongside her while cars coming up behind me honked impatiently. I motioned them around, keeping an eye fixed on Myrna who trudged on, tears running down her face. I gunned the engine, speeding off, pulling into the berm well ahead of her. I turned the engine off and got out, walking back to meet her.
"Come on, Myrna. Slow down. It's finally over," I said.
"No, it's not. It's never over until they pay up."
"Yeah, but how much? Listen, I understand how you feel. They took everything you had."
"The bastards," she said.
"Myrna…"
"My name is Claire."
"All right, Claire then. Here's the truth. You killed the wrong man. Guy never did anything to you or to your family. He's the only one who ever treated Patty well."
"Liar. You're lying. You made that up."
I shook my head. "Patty slept around. You know she had problems. Those were wild times. Dope and free love. We were all goofy with goodwill, with the notion of world peace. Remember? She was a flower child, an innocent-"
"She was schizophrenic," Claire spat.
"Okay. I'll take your word for it. She probably did LSD. She ate mushrooms. She stuck herself with things. And all the fellows took advantage of her, except Guy. I promise. He really cared about her. He told me about her and he was wistful and loving. He'd tried to get in touch. He wrote to her once, but she was dead by then. He had no idea. All he knew was he never heard from her and he felt bad about that."
"He was a turd."
"All right. He was a turd. He did a lot of shitty things back then, but at heart, he was a good man. Better than his brothers. They took advantage of him. Patty probably wished the baby was his, but it wasn't."
"Whose then?"
"Jack's. Paul Trasatti's. I'm not really sure how many men she slept with. Guy didn't forge the letters, either. That was Bennet and Paul, a little scheme they cooked up to earn some money that spring."
"They took everything away from me. Everything."
"I know. And now you've taken something away from them."
"What?" she said, her eyes blazing with disdain.
"You took the only decent man who ever bore the Malek name."
"Bader was decent."
"But he never made good. Your mother asked him for the money and he refused to pay."
"I didn't blame him for that."
"Too bad. You blamed Guy instead and he was innocent."
"Fuck off," she said.
"What else? What's the rest? I know there's more to this," I said. "You wrote the anonymous letter to Guy, the one the cops have, right?"
"Of course. Don't be dumb. I wrote all the letters up on Bennet's machine. For Guy's letter, I used the Bible. I thought he'd like that… a message from Deuteronomy… 'And thy life shall hang in doubt before thee; and thou shalt fear day and night, and shalt have none assurance of thy life.' You like that?"
"Very apt. A good choice," I said.
"That's not all, doll. You missed the best part… the obvious… you and that fancy-pants probate attorney. I found both wills months ago when I first started working here. I searched through Bader's files every chance I had. I tore up the second will so someone would have to go out looking for Guy. You did all the work for me. I appreciate that."
"What about the blood in your bathroom? Where did that come from?"
She held her thumb up. "I used a lancet. I left a couple drops on the patio and another in the truck. There's a shovel behind the tool shed. That's got blood on it, too."
"What about the dirt and gravel on the bathroom floor?"
"I thought Donovan should have a turn in the barrel. Didn't you think of him when you saw it?"
"Actually he did cross my mind. I'd have gone after him if I hadn't figured out what was going on. But what now? None of this is going to work. The whole plan's caving in. Trying to hike out was dumb. You weren't that hard to find."
"So what? I'm out of here. I'm tired. Get away from me," she said.
"Myrna…" I said, patiently.
"It's Claire," she snapped. "What do you want?"
"I want the killing to stop. I want the dying to end. I want Guy Malek to rest easy wherever he is."
"I don't care about Guy," she said. Her voice quaked with emotion and her face looked drawn and tense.
"What about Patty? Don't you think she'd care?"
"I don't know. I've lost track. I thought I'd feel better, but I don't." She walked on down the road with me trotting after her. "There aren't any happy endings. You have to take what you get."
"There may not be a happy ending, but there are some that satisfy."
"Name one."
"Come back. Own up to what you did. Turn and face your demons before they eat you alive."
She was weeping freely, and in some curious way, she seemed very beautiful, touched with grace. She turned and started walking backward, her arm out, hand turned up, as though thumbing a ride. I was walking at the same pace, the two of us face-to-face. She caught my eye and smiled, shot a look over her shoulder to check for traffic coming the other way.
We had reached an intersection. There was a wide curve in the road ahead. The stoplight had changed and cars had surged forward, picking up speed. Even now, I'm not certain what she meant to do. For a moment, she looked at me fully and then she made a dash for it, flinging herself into the line of traffic like a diver plunging off a board. I thought she might escape destruction because the first vehicle missed her and a second car seemed to bump her without injury or harm. The drivers in both lanes were slamming on their brakes, swerving to avoid her. She ran on, stumbling as she entered the far lane. An oncoming car caught her and she sailed overhead, as limp as a rag doll, as joyous as a bird.