County Kill (3 page)

He opened his hands and looked at the palms. He studied the top of his desk. I waited.

Finally he said, in a quieter voice, “We’ll have to compose our story first.”

I frowned in artful innocence. “Story …?”

His voice less quiet. “Of course. Do we want to tell those nosy people that the Lunds are getting a divorce, that Jim
Ritter was the one who called us in, that Mrs. Lund was drunk when you phoned? Do we have to spread all that out for the world to read?”

“Absolutely not,” I agreed. “The kid’s got it rough enough already.”

“The kid?” he said doubtfully.

“Warren Temple Lund the Third,” I explained. “My client.”

“Oh.” He nodded. “Sure. Fan of yours, isn’t he? Never could see that football. Baseball’s more to my taste.”

I said nothing. It was a free country.

So we dreamed up a gasser and called in the local news-hawk and his Brownie buddy. And one more — a man from the local TV station.

The way we explained it, Bud had gone to pay a surprise visit to his Aunt Glenys in Beverly Hills. (Vogel had already alerted her.) But, we went on, his Aunt Glenys hadn’t been home, so Bud had wandered around town and finally looked up his old idol, a friend of his Aunt Glenys’, former Stanford All-American and Ram immortal, Brock (The Rock) Callahan, presently an impeccably respectable private investigator.

The name of Bud’s father was not mentioned in this account we presented, and Harris made it clear in answering the reporter’s questions that Bud’s trip and his father’s disappearance had no connection.

He lied about that, and I substantiated it. We were lying allies for the moment, and I could hope that that would give me a few unharassed days in San Valdesto.

I didn’t bring up the subject, though. So long as he didn’t, there would be no reason why I couldn’t hang around town, having not been told not to, if you follow me. Our mutual lie made us uneasy allies — more than I had hoped for on entering his office. When the situation worsened, I would
have to come up with something stronger, if possible.

Vogel wasn’t in sight when I came out of the chief’s office, and I didn’t wait to look him up. I bought a local paper and drove over to the north side of town, to a motel I had stayed at before called the Deauville Dobe.

The summer rates were no longer in effect and I got a nice unit near the pool. I could write this off as a vacation; how else could I justify it without being sentimental?

It was now six o’clock, but I phoned Jan at her shop and she was still working.

I told her, “I’ll be here for a couple of days. I thought you could pick up some of my clothes for me and come up to share my vacation.”

“I can’t make it,” she said ruefully. “I’m just starting the Kesselring place and it takes all day every day. Maybe I could come up Saturday night and stay over Sunday.”

This was Thursday. I said, “Do that. And could you ship some clothes up to me?”

“Wait,” she said. “I think Glenys is coming up to be with her sister and she could — oh, no!”

“No, what?”

“If she brought up your clothes, she’d know I have a key to your apartment.”

“So? Would it make her jealous? She wouldn’t care.”

“Oh, shut up! You’re so vulgar.”

I
was vulgar.
She
had the key, but I was vulgar. I said nothing.

A silence on the line for a few seconds, and then she said, “I suppose I could tell her the superintendent let me in. O.K., that’s what I’ll do. What’s your address up there?”

“I’m staying at the Deauville Dobe. But it would be better if she brought the clothes to her sister’s house. I’ll pick them up there.”

I didn’t want to put an image into Jan’s mind, a mental
picture of Glenys Christopher coming into my cozy motel room, a grip full of my clothes in her hand. Jan has an extremely unreasonable imagination.

“All right,” she agreed. “And, Brock … why are you staying there? Did June Lund hire you?”

“Well,” I stalled, “not exactly. You see, the boy — well, he doesn’t know his father is wanted by the police — not yet — and I thought maybe — ”

“Brock Callahan,” she said acidly, “those people are
rich
. If you want to do charity work, do it for the
poor
. You make me sick!”

“Honey,” I said soothingly, “this is a little vacation for me. Now you come up Saturday night. I miss you.”

“I’ll try. Remember, now; don’t be a damned fool.”

A financial fool, she meant. I promised I wouldn’t.

I showered and read the local paper. The story of Johnny Chavez was there; he had been found by a sheriff’s deputy making a check of the isolated cabins that dotted the various peaks in the area. According to his sister, Mary Chavez, Johnny had gone up there with Skip Lund on a hunting trip. What they were hunting in October Miss Chavez was not prepared to state.

Chavez had been killed with a.30-.30. That’s a deer-rifle caliber. Could they have been hunting deer? The story ended by stating that Warren Lund was being sought for questioning in connection with the “shooting.” It hadn’t been established as murder yet.

I climbed into the flivver and headed for Montevista.

As I came up the long, bumpy driveway my headlights picked up my client in front of the garage. He was putting his bike away.

“Hi,” he said. “Do you know who won today? That dopey paper boy forgot to leave us one.”

The Series was on in New York. I said, “The Yankees,
in the tenth. Glad to be home again?”

“I guess.” He glanced toward the lighted living-room window. “Mom’s already had a couple of drinks. Martinis.” He made a face.

“It’s the cocktail hour,” I said cheerfully. I put a hand on his shoulder. “Someday you’ll be old enough to drink. It’s — like medicine to some people.”

“Sure,” he said.

What do you tell them? In the reflected light from the living-room window I looked at my client and he at me.
Adults
, I thought;
damn them all!

I ruffled his hair. “Remember what I told you: you’re your own best friend. Let’s go in and join the party.”

We went up and through the entry hall and into the bright living room. June Lund was sitting on an enormous, curving sofa of chartreuse silk, her slim legs curled up under her, both hands encasing her Martini. Next to the fireplace, whisky and ice in his glass, James Edward Ritter stood like the lord of the manor. For some reason this man annoyed me. He was such an unctuous square.

“Hello,” June said, and “Good evening,” Ritter said, and I nodded and smiled at them both.

“Drink?” she asked.

“I rarely touch the hard stuff,” I told her. “I’d appreciate a glass of beer.”

“Of course,” she said. “Any special brand?”

There was only a slight slurring of her sibilants and very little glaze in her eyes, but I had a feeling that she was carefully avoiding any appearance of drunkenness.

The maid had come in and was waiting for my order.

“I favor Einlicher,” I told June Lund, “but I don’t often find it.”

She looked at the maid and the woman shook her head.

“Miller, then?” I asked, and the maid nodded and went out.

For a moment all three of them were looking at me. It was then that Bud said proudly, “Mr. Callahan’s going to find Pop.”

Both Ritter and Mrs. Lund looked startled, but I thought there was another emotion on the face of Ritter — annoyance.

June Lund said blankly, “Find?” She stared worriedly at Bud.

“What’s wrong with that?” Bud asked belligerently. “He can tell him to write, can’t he, when he finds him? Then I’ll know what Pop’s doing.”

His mother said steadily, “Didn’t I tell you he was on a trip? Do you think I’m lying to you?”

Bud flushed and studied the carpeting on the floor.

His mother glanced at Ritter and then said gently to her son, “It’s time to wash up, tiger. We’ll be eating soon.”

He went out quietly, taking my heart along. The maid brought my beer.

When the maid had left, Ritter said, “That boy needs discipline, June. He’s insolent.”

I looked at him over my beer. He met my glance and the contempt in his eyes probably matched mine.

June Lund said quietly to me, “We’ve kept the papers from him so far. But he’ll have to go to school tomorrow and the other children will know.” She sighed. “His father has found some strange friends up here, Mr. Callahan.” She paused again, glanced at Ritter, and continued in a near whisper. “One of his
very special
friends is Mary Chavez, the sister of the man who was killed.”

Ritter said sharply, “Damn it, June, you’re talking to a private investigator! Show a little discretion.”

I said to him,
“Private
is the definitive word there, Mr.

Ritter.” I turned back to her. “Do you know where your husband is?”

She shook her head slowly, staring moodily at her drink. “I lied to Bud about the trip. I had to tell him something.” Her chin came up defiantly. “Skip Lund hasn’t been a husband for six months, and he’s been a bad father this past month.”

“Oh, God!” Ritter said. “June, please! Don’t you realize the ammunition you’re giving this man?”

I felt a tremor in my knee and a tightness at the base of my neck. I tried to keep my voice calm. “Mr. Ritter, I’d appreciate it if you’d stay out of this conversation. If Mrs. Lund wants a character reference, she can get one from any of half a dozen chiefs of police or her own sister, for whom I once worked.”

He said coolly, “That’s a good idea. We’ll get the references first, and then if Mrs. Lund still wants to reveal family secrets to you, we’ll arrange a time when she hasn’t had three double Martinis. Is that reasonable?”

He was a cutie, this one. I almost admired him. I couldn’t think of anything wrong with his suggestion.

But June Lund said,
“We
, Jim? Are you acting as my attorney? I didn’t know you were qualified.”

His face stiffened. “I’m acting in your interests, June. And I’m sober.”

“That’s your major fault,” she said. “You’re
always
sober.” She sighed and smiled bleakly at me. “Mr. Callahan, I have no idea where Skip Lund is. I started divorce proceedings three weeks ago.”

I
T WAS AN
uncomfortable dinner. Bud and I found some communication, the World Series and the football fortunes of U.C.L.A. and Southern Cal. The Rams and Stanford were topics too painful for me to discuss this season.

Mrs. Lund and her friend (?) maintained an absolute minimum of dialogue; he was still miffed at her revelations to me and she had clearly resented his unsolicited advice. If this was the best she could do as a substitute for her missing husband, it indicated a very low quota of eligible males in this tight little town.

So what business was it of mine? Warren Temple Lund the Second and Third were my business, and the love life of June Christopher Lund (if any) would have to remain her problem.

When the meal was finished, Mrs. Lund suggested that we have our coffee in the living room. We were heading that way when Bud asked me if I knew anything about bikes. His handle bars were loose, he said.

I excused myself and went outside with him.

There was nothing wrong with his handle bars; he had
simply wanted to talk with me privately. He asked, “What did my mom tell you? Did she tell you anything?”

I said carefully, “Nothing that will help. I’ll check around town tomorrow. Maybe Sergeant Vogel knows something.”

“He’s no friend of Pop’s, that Sergeant Vogel,” Bud told me. “He’s Mr. Ritter’s buddy.”

“Buddy?”

“Sure. They went to high school together. Do you like Mr. Ritter?”

“I — uh — don’t know much about him, Bud. We’d better go back in.”

We had turned toward the house when the headlights flashed in from the direction of the road. I said, “Let’s wait. That might be your Aunt Glenys, and she’s bringing up my clothes.”

“Aunt Glenys?” he said. He didn’t sound happy.

It was a big black Continental. It came whispering in under the floodlight of the yard and parked behind my faded flivver.

The tall, slim figure that stepped out from behind the wheel was familiar. And then her jet hair glinted in the overhead light and I said, “Hello, again.”

“Brock Callahan,” she said. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? Your grip is on the rear seat.”

She held the door open; I reached in and took my bag. She was standing close to me and her perfume was expensive and disturbing.

She looked down at Bud. “And how are you, traveler?”

“O.K.,” he said. “Fine, thank you.”

“All the way to Beverly Hills,” she said gently, “and you didn’t even look up your Aunt Glenys. Am I not a friend of yours, Warren Temple Lund the Third?”

He stared at the ground and said nothing. There was a shadow over him, a bird-of-paradise tree that blocked out
the light from the house. He seemed lost in the blackness.

Glenys sighed and looked sadly at me.

“I hear Bobby’s a lawyer now,” I said. “He turned out well for a halfback, didn’t he?”

She nodded, still looking at Bud. “Aren’t we friends? Aren’t you glad to see me, Bud?”

“Sure,” he said. “Sure. Why not? Hi.”

“Hi,” she said.

I put my bag into the flivver and we walked up to the front door together. As we drew closer we could hear June and Ritter arguing about something, and their voices were harsh.

Glenys muttered under her breath as Bud preceded us into the room. Bud said, “Aunt Glenys is here, Mom.”

June Lund was back on the silk sofa, her feet under her once more, a small liqueur glass in her hand. “Glen!” she said excitedly, and started to rise.

Her feet were tangled and the drink tilted, spilling over the front of her dress and dripping onto the sofa.

Glenys froze, Ritter mumbled something I didn’t catch, and Bud stared at her in abject shame. Then his eyes misted and he ran from the room and out the front door.

I left the others and went after my client.

I caught up to him just before he got to the end of the driveway. He was sobbing and he tried to squirm free of my grip.

“Easy, Bud,” I soothed him.