P is for Peril (21 page)

I started down the sloping lawn, hoping to come across someone who'd tell me if Trigg was home. For the next five minutes, I wandered across the property, grass squishing underfoot where underground springs had suddenly resurfaced. At the end of a row of ornamental pears, I spotted a greenhouse with a small potting shed attached. An electric golf cart was parked nearby. I picked my way forward, mindful of the mud sucking at the soles of my boots.

I could see a man working at a high bench just inside the shed. Despite the cold, he wore khaki shorts and muddy running shoes. There were braces on both legs, secured by what looked like screws driven in on either side of his knees. I could see signs of atrophy in the muscles of his calves. Propped up against the counter beside him was a pair of forearm crutches. The billed cap he wore covered a thatch of gray hair. On the redwood surface in front of him, there were five or six ratty-looking potted plants in various stages of decline.

I paused in the doorway, waiting for acknowledgment before I went in. Beyond the far doorway, the greenhouse opened up, but the angled glass ceiling wasn't visible from where I stood. Most of the side panes were an opaque white, but in places the glass was clear, admitting brighter squares of light. The air was warm and smelled of loam and peat moss. “Hi. Sorry to interrupt, but are you Mr. Trigg?”

He scarcely looked up. “That's me. What can I do for you?”

“I'm Kinsey Millhone.”

He turned and looked at me blankly, a knot forming between his eyes. His mustache was iron gray and his brows were an untidy mix of black and gray hairs. I guessed he was in his early sixties; red-nosed, jowly, and heavy through his chest, which sloped forward and down into a sizeable belly.

“I was hoping you could answer some questions about Dr. Purcell,” I prompted.

His confusion seemed to clear. “Oh, sorry. I forgot you were coming or I'd have waited at the house.”

“I should have called to remind you. I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”

“Hope I can be of help,” he said. “Folks call me ‘Trigg' so you can skip all the ‘mister' stuff. Doesn't seem to fit.” He leaned against the crude redwood counter and stirred a quick squirt of detergent into one of two buckets of water sitting side-by-side. He reached for a twig of miniature rosebush festooned with cobwebs. He placed his hand on the soil at the base of the plant, turned it upside down, and dunked it in the water. “I'm surprised you found me. My daughter lives with me, but she's out this morning.”

“Well, I did wander quite a bit. I'm glad you don't have a roving pack of attack-trained dogs.”

“That bunch is put away for the moment,” he said without pause.

I really hoped this was a sample of his dry wit. Hard to tell as his tone of voice and his facial expression didn't change.

“In case you're wondering what I'm up to, I'm not a horticulturist by trade. My daughter has a business taking care of houseplants for folks here in Horton Ravine. She does a bit of hotel work, too—the Edge-water, Montebello Inn, places like that. All live plants; no fresh flowers. I guess they hire someone else to do the big fancy arrangements. She brings me the sickly kids and I nurse 'em back to health.” He righted the dripping rosebush and then swished it in the bucket of clear water. He pulled it out, shook it off, and studied the effect. “This little guy's suffering from an infestation of spider mites. Suckers are only a fiftieth of an inch long and look at the damage. Used to have healthy foliage and now it's no more than a twig. I'll keep it in quarantine. We see a lot of root rot, too. People overwater, trying to be helpful between Susan's visits. You a plant person?”

“Not much. Used to have an air fern, but I finally threw it out.”

“Smell like feet,” he said, with a shake of his head. He set the rosebush aside and reached for a corn plant in a terra-cotta pot. I watched while he sponged a dark gray powdery coating from the leaves. “Sooty mold,” he said, as though I'd inquired. “Plain old soapy water's good for a lot of these things. I'm not opposed to a systemic poison, but something like aphids, I prefer to try a contact pesticide first. Malathion or nicotine sulfate, which is basically your Black Flag-40. I'm conservative, I guess. Susan sometimes disagrees, but she can't argue with my success.”

I said, “I take it you're an old friend of Dr. Purcell?”

“A good twenty years. I was a patient of his. He testified in my behalf in the lawsuit following my auto accident.”

“This was before he got into geriatrics?”

“I certainly hope so,” he said.

I smiled. “What kind of work did you do?”

“I was a detail man; drug sales. I covered the tri-counties, calling on doctors in private practice. I met Dow when he still had his office over near St. Terry's.”

“You must have done well. This property's impressive.”

“So was the settlement. Not that it's any compensation. I used to jog and play tennis. Take your body for granted until it goes out on you. Hell of a thing, but I'm luckier than some.” He paused, peering over at me. “I take it you talked to Crystal. She called to say you'd probably be getting in touch. How's it going so far?”

“It's frustrating. I've met with a lot of people, but all I've picked up are theories when what I need are facts.”

His tangled eyebrows met in the middle, forming a crimp. “I suspect I'm only going to add to the general confusion. I've been thinking about him, going back over things in my mind. Police talked to me the first week he was gone and I was as baffled as anyone.”

“How often did you see him?”

“Once or twice a week. He'd stop by for coffee in the mornings on his way to Pacific Meadows. I know you gals think men don't talk about personal matters . . . more like sports, cars, and politics is your sense of it. Dow and I, we were different, maybe because he'd seen me go through so much pain and suffering. Without complaint, I might add. He was a man tended to keep his own counsel and I think he valued that in others. He was only eight years my senior, but I looked on him as a father. I felt comfortable telling him just about anything. We built us a lot of trust and in time, he confided in me as well.”

“People admire him.”

“As well they should. He's a good man . . . or was. I'm not at all sure how we should speak of him. Present tense, I hope, but that remains to be seen. Crystal tells me Fiona hired you.”

“That's right. She's in San Francisco on business, but she's coming back this afternoon. I'm scrambling around, talking to as many people as I can, hoping to persuade her the money's well spent.”

“I wouldn't be concerned. Fiona's hard to please,” he said. “Who's on your list aside from me?”

“Well, I've talked to one of his two business associates . . .”

“Which one?”

“Joel Glazer. I haven't talked to Harvey Broadus. I talked to people at the clinic, and his daughter Blanche, but not Melanie.”

His eyebrows went up at the mention of her name, but he made no comment. “What about Lloyd Muscoe, Crystal's ex-husband? Have you spoken to him?”

“I hadn't thought to, but I could. I saw him at Crystal's on Friday afternoon when he came to get Leila. How does he fit in?”

“He might or might not. About four months back, Dow mentioned that he went to see Lloyd. I assumed it had something to do with Leila, but maybe not. You know, Leila lived with Lloyd briefly. She'd been busy telling everyone she was old enough to decide. Crystal got tired of fighting her, so Leila went to Lloyd's. She started eighth grade in the public schools up here. Wasn't here two months and she was out of control. Grades fell, she was truant, into alcohol and drugs. Dow put his foot down and that's when they stepped in and enrolled her in Fitch. Now she's strictly regulated and she blames Dow for that. Sees him as a tyrant—a tyrant being anyone who won't let her have her way.”

“I think she's mad at Lloyd, too. When I was over there, she was refusing to see him, but Crystal insisted.”

“I don't doubt she's mad at him. She thinks it's his job to get her out of there. Doesn't want to look at her own behavior. Her age, you always think it's someone else's fault.”

“What happened when Dow went to see Lloyd? Did they quarrel?”

“Not that I know, but if Lloyd intended to do Dow harm, he'd be way too wily to tip his hand with any public display.”

I reached in my bag and found a stray envelope so I could make a note. “Can you give me his address?”

“I don't remember offhand. I can tell you where it is, though. Big house, yellow shingles, pitch roof. Right there at the corner of Missile and Olivio. Lloyd rents the little studio in back.”

“I think I know the place,” I said. “I gather he and Crystal get along okay.”

“More or less. She still tends to lick his boots. Crystal was always under Lloyd's thumb.”

“How so?”

“He lived off her earnings when she worked as a stripper in Las Vegas. They had one of those hotheaded relationships full of drinking and fights. One or the other would end up calling the police, screaming bloody murder. Crystal would have Lloyd arrested and then next thing you know she'd change her mind and refuse to press charges. He'd accuse her of assault and battery, then they'd kiss and make up. Oldest story in the book. After she met Dow, she dropped everything and moved to Santa Teresa with the girl. I guess she saw Dow as her ticket out, which in a way he was. Problem was, Lloyd followed her and he was furious—couldn't believe she'd leave him after all they'd been through. Couldn't believe he'd lost control is more like it.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I heard it from Dow,” he said. “I think he was worried Lloyd would find a way to reassert his dominance. Crystal looks strong, but where Lloyd's concerned she's motivated by guilt. He claims she owes him big time for turning his life upside down.”

“Doesn't he work?”

“Not so's you'd notice. He did construction for a while, but then he claimed he'd injured his back. He'll live on worker's comp until the money runs out. That's how his mind works. Why put out the effort if he can get what he wants by manipulating someone else?”

“But surely Crystal's out from under him.”

“A woman like her is never out from under a man.”

I tucked the envelope away, trying to think what other ground I might cover. “What about the book Dow was writing? That's one reason Crystal's convinced something's happened to him. She says he wouldn't just walk out: first of all because of Griffith and, secondly, because of the book he was working on.”

A pained expression seemed to cross Trigg's face. “Started out, he was excited about the project, but the task turned out to be a lot harder than he thought. I'd say he was more discouraged than enthusiastic. He was also upset about Fiona. She kept pressing him for money. He knew she was convinced he was going back to her and that distressed him no end. That's why he was on his way up there.”

“What do you mean ‘up there'?”

“He was going to see Fiona to clarify the situation.”

“The night he disappeared?”

“That's what he told me. We had breakfast together that Friday morning and he said she'd insisted on a meeting. She was always insisting on something. She's a pain in the ass, if you'll forgive my being blunt. I told Dow then what I'd been saying all along: She was always going to demand a pound of flesh from him. She couldn't stop him leaving her, but she could surely make him pay.”

“What in the world made her think he'd leave Crystal and go back to her?”

“Oh, she had it all worked out, according to him. Said she was the only one understood him, for better or worse. I guess she was big on ‘worse.' ”

“Fiona tells me Dow disappeared on two previous occasions. Any idea where?”

“Rehab. He told me he went to a ‘dry out' farm.”

“Alcohol?”

“That's right. He didn't want it known, felt his patients would lose confidence if they knew his drinking was out of control.”

“I've heard from a couple of different sources he was drinking again.”

“Probably Fiona's influence. She'd drive any man to drink.”

“Couldn't he have checked into another rehab facility?”

“I hope so. I surely do, but then again, you'd think he'd have let someone know by now.”

“Fiona says he didn't say a word to anyone before.”

“That's not quite true. He told me.”

“What do you know about the business at Pacific Meadows?”

Trigg shook his head. “Not much. I know it wasn't looking good. I told him to hire an attorney, but he said he didn't want to do that yet. He had his suspicions about what was going on, but he wanted to check it out himself before he did anything else.”

“Someone told me he was worried Crystal would jump ship if the uproar became public.”

Trigg tossed his sponge in a bucket. “Maybe that's what Fiona was counting on,” he said.

I walked into the office at 11:25 to find Jeniffer, bending over a file drawer, in a skirt so short the two crescent-shaped bulges of her hiney were hanging out the back. Her legs were long and bare, tanned from all the days she took off to go to the beach with her pals. I said, “Jeniffer, you're really going to have to wear longer skirts. Don't you remember ‘I see London, I see France, I see someone's underpants'?”

She jerked upright and tugged self-consciously at the hem of her skirt. At least she had the good grace to look embarrassed. She clopped back to her desk in her wooden-soled clogs. She sat down, exposing so much bare thigh I felt compelled to avert my eyes.