K is for Killer (22 page)

Janice had notified the post office to forward Lorna's mail to her, and she'd tossed in a stack of unopened statements: windowed envelopes from various sources, all of them marked “important tax information.” I opened a few, just to check the year end against my list. Among them was a statement from a bank in Simi Valley that I'd seen on her tax forms for the last two years. The account had been closed out, but the bank had sent her a 1099-INT, reporting the interest accrued during the first four months of the year. I tucked that in with the other statements. All the credit cards had been canceled and notices sent to each company. I sorted through some of the files Lorna'd kept: canceled checks, receipts for utilities, various credit card slips.

I laid out the canceled checks like a hand of solitaire. At the bottom, under “Memo,” she'd dutifully written in the purpose of the payment: groceries, manicure, haircut, linens, sundries. There was something touching about the care she'd taken. She hadn't known she'd be dead by the time these checks came back. She hadn't known her last meal would be her last, that every action she'd taken and
each endeavor she'd engaged in were part of some finite number that would soon run out. Sometimes the hardest part of my job is the incessant reminder of the fact we're all trying so assiduously to ignore: we are here temporarily . . . life is only ours on loan.

I put down my pencil and eased my feet up on the desk, rocking back on my swivel chair. The room seemed dark, and I reached over and flipped on the lamp on the bookshelf behind me. Among Lorna's possessions, there was no address book, no calendar, no appointment book of any kind. That might have sparked my curiosity, but I wondered if it didn't speak to Lorna's caution about her clients. Danielle had told me she was very tight-lipped, and I felt this discretion might extend to the keeping of written notes as well. I reached for the manila envelope that held the crime scene photographs. I sorted through until I found the angles that showed the papers on her table and countertop. I pulled the light over closer, but there was no way to see if there was an appointment book visible. I glanced at my watch. I was dog-tired. I was also bored and hungry, but I could feel my senses quicken as the darkness gathered depth. Maybe I was turning into a vampire or a werewolf, repelled by sunlight, seduced by the moon.

I got up and shrugged into my jacket, leaving Lorna's papers on my desk. What was bothering me? I scanned the desktop. A fact . . . something obvious . . . had passed through my hands. The problem with being tired is that your brain doesn't work so hot. Idly I paused and moved a batch of papers aside, leafing through the forms. I looked at the holographic will and Janice's supporting statement. I didn't think that was it. In theory, it would seem self-serving that Janice was in a position to attest to the legitimacy of a will from which she largely benefited. However,
the truth of it was that if Lorna had died with no will at all, the result would have been the same.

I picked up the bank notices and shuffled through them again, pausing when I got to the statement from the bank in Simi. The interest was minimal since she'd closed the account in April. Before that, she'd maintained a balance of roughly twenty thousand dollars. I looked at the closing date. The zero balance showed as of Friday, April 20. The day before she died.

I pulled out the files Lieutenant Dolan had given me. The personal property inventory mentioned all manner of items found on the premises, including Lorna's handbag and her wallet, containing all her credit cards and a hundred bucks in cash. Nowhere was there mention of twenty thousand dollars. I took the notice with me to the Xerox room around the corner, made a copy of the statement, and stuck it in my handbag. Serena Bonney had been the first person on the scene. I checked my notes for her father's address, packed up Lorna's papers with the crime scene photographs, and took the banker's box with me down the stairs to my car.

 

T
he address I'd picked up for Clark Esselmann turned out to be a sizable estate, maybe seven or eight acres surrounded by a low sandstone wall, beyond which the rolling lawns had been erased by the dark. Landscaping floods washed light across the exterior of the house, which was constructed in the French country style, meaning long and low with a steeply pitched roof. Mullioned windows formed a series of staunch yellow grids along the facade, while the tall fieldstone chimneys jutted up like black towers against the charcoal sky.
Low-voltage lights defined the foliage and walkways, allowing me a fair sense of what it must have looked like by day. Interior lights winking in a small structure some distance from the main house suggested a guest house or perhaps maid's quarters.

When I reached the main entrance, I could see electronic gates. A key pad and intercom were planted at expensive-car window height. Naturally my VW left me disadvantaged, and in order to buzz I had to pull on the emergency brake, open the car door, and torque my whole body, risking vicious back spasms. I pushed the button, wishing I could order a Big Mac and fries.

A disembodied voice came in response. “Yes?”

“Oh, hi. I'm Kinsey Millhone. I have some house keys that belong to Serena Bonney.”

There was no reply. What did I expect, a gasp of astonishment? Half a second later the two halves of the gate began to swing back in silence. I eased my VW up the circular driveway, lined with junipers. The entry was cobblestone, with a separate lane leading to the left and on around to the rear. I caught a glimpse of garages, like a line of horse stables. Just to be contrary, I bypassed the front door and drove around the side of the house to a brightly lighted gravel parking pad in back. The four-car garage was linked to the main house by a long, covered breeze-way, beyond which I could see a short stretch of lawn intersected by a man-made reflecting pond, submerged lights tucked among its rocks. All across the property, lighting picked out significant landscape features: ornamental shrubs and tree trunks appearing like oils painted on black velvet. On the clear black surface of the pond, water lilies grew in clumps, breaking up a perfect inverted image of the house.

Night-blooming jasmine filled the air with perfume. I backtracked to the front door and rang properly. Moments later Serena answered, dressed in slacks and a white silk shirt.

“I brought your keys back,” I said, holding them out to her.

“Those are my keys? Oh, so they are,” she said. “Where did these come from?”

“Lorna's mother came across them. You must have given Lorna a set when she was house-sitting for you.”

“Thanks. I'd forgotten. Nice of you to return them.”

“I've also got a question, if you can spare me a minute.”

“Sure. Come on in. Dad's out on the patio. He just got out of the hospital today. Have you met him?”

“I don't think our paths have ever crossed,” I said.

I followed her through the house and into a large country kitchen. A cook was in the process of preparing the evening meal, barely glancing up from her chopping board as we passed through. An informal dining table large enough to seat eight was located in a bay of French doors on the far side of the room. The ceiling rose a story and a half, with crisscrossing wooden beams. An assortment of baskets and bunches of dried herbs hung on wooden pegs. The floor was a pale, glossy pine. The layout of the room allowed space for two separate cooking islands about ten feet apart. One was topped with dark granite with its own inlaid hardwood cutting surfaces and a butler's sink. The second housed a full-size sink, two dishwashers, and a trash compactor. A fireplace on a raised hearth held a blazing fire.

Serena opened the French doors, and I followed her out. A wide flagstone patio ran the width of the house. Outside lights seemed to create an artificial day. A black-bottomed lap pool, a good seventy-five feet by twenty, defined its
outer edge. The water was clear, but the black tile seemed to erase its inner dimensions. Pool lights picked up a shifting web of emerald green that somehow made the bottom look endlessly deep. Diving into that would be like a plunge into Loch Ness. God knew what creatures might be lurking in the abyss.

Clark Esselmann, in his robe and slippers, a stick in his hand, was teasing a black Labrador retriever into the ready position. “Okay, Max. Here we go now. Here we go.”

The dog was full-grown, probably the same age in dog years as the old man himself. Max nearly quivered, totally focused on the game being played. As we approached, the old man threw the stick into the lap pool. The dog flung himself into the water, moving toward the stick, which was now bobbing in the water at the far end. I recognized Serena's father from numerous pictures that had appeared in the
Santa Teresa Dispatch
over the years. White-haired, in his seventies, he carried himself with an old-fashioned ramrod-straight posture. If his heart problems had affected him, it was hard to see how.

Serena smiled, watching them. “This is the first chance he's had to connect with Max. They usually go through this first thing in the morning, and what a sight they are. Dad swims in one lane and the dog swims in the other.”

Vaguely I was aware of the telephone ringing somewhere inside the house. The dog collected the stick in his teeth and swam in our direction, scrambling up the stairs at the near end of the pool. He dropped it at the old man's feet and then barked once sharply. Esselmann threw the stick again. It sailed toward the deep end of the pool, landing with a faint splash. The dog flew off the side and swam, head high. The old man laughed and clapped his hands, urging the dog on. “Come on, Max. Come on.”

The retriever clamped his mouth on the stick again and turned, paddling back to the stairs, where he scrambled out, water pouring off his oily coat. Max dropped the stick at Esselmann's feet and then shook himself vigorously. Water flew out in all directions. Both Serena and her father laughed. Esselmann brushed at the polka dots of water on his cotton robe. I could have sworn Max was grinning, but I might have been mistaken.

A maid in a black uniform appeared at the French doors. “Mr. Esselmann? Phone for you.”

The old man turned and glanced in that direction, then headed toward the house while the dog pranced sideways and barked, hoping for one more toss. Serena caught my eye and smiled. Clearly, her father's hospital discharge had lightened her mood. “Can I offer you a glass of wine?”

“I'd better not,” I said. “Wine makes me sleepy, and I have work to do yet.”

We moved back through the French doors into the kitchen, where the wood fire popped cheerfully. Esselmann was standing near the planning center, on the telephone. He glanced over his shoulder and raised a hand, indicating his awareness of our presence. Beyond him, the door to the hall was open, and the dog's wet footprints led to a second door that was now closed. I had to guess Max had been relegated to the basement until he managed to dry himself. I heard a scratching noise, and then the dog issued one of those brief barks intended to make his wishes known.

“Don't be ridiculous. Of course, I'll be there. . . . Well, I'm opposed, of course. We're talking about an allotment of twelve million gallons a year. I'm absolutely adamant about this, and I don't care who knows it.” His manner shifted to something slightly less gruff. “I feel fine. . . . I appreciate
that, Ned, and I hope you'll tell Julia I received the flowers she sent and they were lovely. . . . Yes, I'll do that. I don't have much choice. Serena keeps me on a very tight leash.” He turned and rolled his eyes at her, knowing that she was nearby. “I'll see you at the meeting Friday night. Just tell Bob and Druscilla how I'm voting on this. We can talk about it then, but I hope we're in accord. . . . Thank you. I'll do that. . . . Same to you.”

He hung up the handset with a shake of his head. “Damn fools. First time my back is turned, they get sweet-talked into something. I hate the oil companies. That Stockton fellow's not going to have his way on this.”

“I thought you were in his corner.”

“I changed my mind,” he said emphatically. He held his hand out to me. “Please excuse my bad manners. I shouldn't keep you standing while I rant and rave. Clark Esselmann. You caught me in the middle of my daily romp with the dog. I don't believe we've met.”

I introduced myself. His grip was firm, but I could detect a slight tremor in his fingers. Up close, I could see that his color was poor. He looked anemic, and the flesh on the back of his right hand was bruised from some medical procedure. Still, he had a certain hardy determination that seemed to prevail in the face of his recurring health problems.

“Dad, you're not seriously thinking of trying to make it to a board meeting.”

“You can bet on it,” he said.

“You just got home. You're in no shape. The doctor doesn't even want you driving yet.”

“I can take a taxi if need be. Or I can have Ned pick me up.”

“I don't mind driving you. That's not the point,” she
said. “I really think you ought to take it easy for a few days.”

“Nonsense! I'm not so old or infirm that I can't make decisions about what I'll do on any given day. Now if you girls will excuse me, I'm going up to take a rest before dinner. It's been a pleasure, Miss Millhone. I hope the next time we meet, you'll find me decently dressed. I don't usually meet the public in my bathrobe.”

Serena touched his arm. “You need help getting up the stairs?”

“Thankfully, I don't,” he said. He moved from the room with a shuffling gait that nevertheless propelled him at nearly normal speeds. As he passed the basement, he reached over and opened the door. The dog must have been lurking at the top of the stairs because he appeared at once and trotted after the old man, glancing back at us with satisfaction.

As Serena turned back to me, she sighed in exasperation. “That man is so stubborn, he drives me nuts. I've never had children, but surely parents are worse. Ah, well. Enough. I'm sure you didn't come here to listen to my gripes. You said you had a question.”