X, Page 27

  “I knew you’d have the lowdown.”

  “Oh, do I ever,” she said. “When the two of them finally split, the Montebello matrons couldn’t back away fast enough. If the case went to court, nobody wanted to be called as a character witness. That’s a no-win situation any way you look at it. You alienate him or you alienate her and you don’t know which one will end up on top. I think they finally reached a settlement after a horrific two years of trying to outdo each other. Meanwhile, the donations dropped to zero, so no more invitations for her. The only friend she has left is this redhead named Kim who used to be high society like Teddy until her husband went to prison for embezzlement.”

  “I’ve met Kim. She’s now working for Montebello Luxury Properties.”

  “She has to work? Well, the poor thing, though she’s better off than Teddy, who has no marketable skills.”

  “Is Kim’s husband at USP Lompoc by any chance?”

  “I don’t know where they sent him, but that’s a good guess. Meanwhile, Teddy left for Los Angeles and Ari took up with a wealthy widow. Actually, his taking up with the widow was what caused the split in the first place. His behavior was an embarrassment. The widow was half his age and a bombshell to boot. How’s that for original?”

  I was shaking my head. “I guess Teddy’s back in town.”

  “Yep, which probably means they’ve signed off on the settlement.”

  “How’d she come out of the deal?”

  “I haven’t heard. I know she went into the marriage without a dime to her name, and here she is again, dependent on him to fund her lifestyle, only in monthly increments.”

  “How long were they married?”

  “Eighteen years. Maybe seventeen. Somewhere in that neighborhood.”

  “She must have done okay, don’t you think?”

  “Hard to tell. She gets spousal support I’m sure, but other than that, he was determined to keep what was his and she wanted what she was owed. Vanity Fair ran a four-page spread, detailing their shenanigans.”

  “I’m sorry I missed that. What were they fighting over?”

  “The big bone of contention was their art collection. He knew nothing about art and had no interest in collecting until she talked him into it. Once they split, he claimed the art on the grounds that he assumed all the risk.”

  “Why didn’t they just add it all up and each take half? I thought that’s how community property worked.”

  “I’m sure they’re liquidating what they can, which is no fun for either one of them. She gave up her stake in the Montebello property, which she couldn’t afford to maintain. There’s a flat in London that ended up on her side of the ledger. She’d be better off taking up residency in the UK, where at least she can start fresh. Even with spousal support, she’ll have a tough time maintaining her lifestyle.”

  “She should have just forgiven the transgression and kept the life she loved.”

  “Absolutely. I forgot to mention the bombshell widow was Teddy’s best friend, which made the blow more devastating.”

  “What happened to the widow?”

  “Ari married her last month and they’re about to take off on a delayed honeymoon. Can’t remember where. Someplace pricy and remote. That’s the new trend. Used to be you’d book a spot everybody knew about so they’d appreciate the exorbitant expense. Now you pick a resort so exclusive, no one’s ever heard of it. It’s even better if it’s difficult to reach and requires your chartering a private jet. Does any of this help?”

  “Information is always good, and the more the merrier. It still frosts my butt she put one over on me. What’s her game?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Well, whatever it is, if there’s a way to trip her up, I’ll be happy to pitch in.”

  I left Vera’s house twenty minutes later, thinking she’d want to catch a few winks of sleep herself while the little ones were down. Her mention of the Xanakises’ art collection renewed my interest in the art theft Nash mentioned in his initial visit. I’d dismissed the idea of a wealthy socialite stealing art unless she’d been desperate for cash. Clever as she was, she might have been perfectly willing to snitch a painting and then accept payment for its return. Possible she didn’t even view it as a crime, just a minor fiddle between friends and no harm done. She probably knew who owned all the pricy pieces in Montebello and what security was in place protecting them. She might even have known which collections were properly insured and which were not.

  Once back at the office, I banished thoughts of Teddy and redirected my attention to April Staehlings and the delivery of the memorabilia that had been left to her. It seemed politic to call in advance. I had no idea how much she’d been told about her mother’s death. She was three at the time and I doubted she remembered Lenore at all. Ned had probably raised her on a sanitized version of the truth, if not an outright lie. With Lenore dead, he could frame the story any way he liked, and who was there to contradict him? Aside from that, I was uncomfortable with the notion of arriving on April’s doorstep if she was unprepared.

  I hauled out the phone book and found the Staehlings’ number listed in the white pages, along with their home address. I punched in the number and listened to the ringing on the other end, rehearsing my summary of the long and convoluted story. An answering machine would have been a blessing, but not one I was accorded.

  “Hello?”

  “May I speak to April?”

  “This is she.”

  Metaphorically speaking, I took a deep breath and stepped off the edge of the cliff. “My name is Kinsey Millhone. I have a mailing pouch in my possession that contains personal items your mother wanted you to have.”

  “You have a what?”

  “A padded mailing envelope. The circumstances are complicated and I apologize for catching you off guard, but I was hoping to work out a time when I could drop off the items and explain.”

  Dead silence. “My mother? Well, that can’t be true. She’s been dead for years.”

  “I know, and I promise you the keepsakes came from her.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Kinsey Millhone. I’m a local private investigator.”

  “I don’t understand. What keepsakes are you talking about? What does that mean, ‘keepsakes’?”

  “I know it’s confusing and I’m hoping you’ll hear me out. Lenore left you her rosary and the Bible she was given when she was confirmed.”

  A moment of dead quiet. “I don’t know what you want, but I’m not interested.”

  “Hang on a minute. Please. I know it’s a lot to take in, but let me finish. Shortly before she died, she mailed the items to her parish priest, and he’s held on to them for years.”

  I was omitting Pete Wolinsky’s part in the matter, but I figured there was only so much she could absorb. She was already stumbling over the concept. I was talking fast, trying to convey the gist of the story before she disengaged. The speedy summation probably wasn’t supporting the sincerity I’d hoped to communicate.

  “Is this a sales call?”

  “It’s not. I’m not selling anything.”

  “Sorry. Can’t help. Bye-bye.” The latter was delivered in a singsong voice.

  “Wait—”

  “No, you wait. I don’t know what your angle is—”

  “I don’t have an angle. I called because I didn’t want to spring it on you.”

  “Spring what? Cash on delivery? You think I’m an idiot?”

  “We don’t have to talk. I’ll be happy to leave the package on your porch as long as you know it’s there.”

  “No. Absolutely not. You show up at my house, I will call the police.” Then she hung up.

  Shit. Now what? If I’d had my wits about me, I’d have put the old mailing pouch in a larger mailing pouch and addressed it to April Staehlings and made a trip to the po
st office. But somehow I had it in my head I should hand-deliver the items since Pete Wolinsky, among others, had gone to so much trouble to see that the package reached her after all these years. Lenore to Clara to Father Xavier, from him to Pete Wolinsky, and from Pete to me. I’d put in a fair number of hours, not to mention the miles I’d driven. Now I wanted to finish the job I’d started.

  What was I thinking? This was one more example of the do-gooder mentality that gets me in trouble every time it surfaces.

  I made a note of her street address, which I located on my city map. She lived on the north end of Colgate in a subdivision I was dimly acquainted with. I could see how it looked from her perspective. She’d assumed I was running a scam, which I knew I was not. I grabbed the mailing pouch, locked the office, got in my car, and took the 101 north to Colgate. All I had to do was drop off the mailer and I’d be done with it.

  29

  April and her husband lived in a large Spanish-style home on a lot that was probably half an acre in size. The exterior was rough stucco with a terra-cotta tile roof, arches, and ornamental ironwork. A three-car garage dominated the front of the house. Most homes on the block looked much the same, barring a balcony or two. I was guessing the Staehlings’ residence had four bedrooms, four and a half bathrooms, a family room, an eat-in kitchen, and a large sheltered patio across the rear of the house. There would be a modest-size swimming pool. The neighborhood conveyed solid middle-class values. Or maybe I arrived at that conclusion because I knew William was an orthodontist and I put his 1989 annual income in the range of a hundred thousand dollars—not much in light of all the schooling he’d been required to complete. He might still be paying off his student loans.

  For a moment, I sat in my car with the mailing pouch on the passenger seat in easy reach. My call had accomplished nothing except to trigger April’s hostility, and I was sorry I hadn’t done a better job of explaining myself. All I wanted to do now was slip up the front walk and lay the mailer on her doorstep. I wouldn’t even ring the doorbell, trusting she’d discover the package at some point during the day.

  I was on the verge of exiting my car when I glanced in my rearview mirror and caught sight of a Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department black-and-white sliding into the stretch of curb behind my Honda. For a moment, I thought the deputy’s arrival was an independent occurrence. Maybe he lived next door; maybe he was doing a welfare check on the occupant. Nope.

  A uniformed deputy emerged from his car and approached mine, coming up on the driver’s side. I couldn’t believe April had called the police and reported me, but it was clear she had. Shit. In my side-view mirror I saw the officer unsnap his holster, but the gesture was discreet; not the action of a man seriously intent on gunning me down. I glanced at the telltale mailing pouch, which I longed to tuck on the floor under the passenger seat. With the deputy so close, I didn’t dare lean forward lest the movement be misconstrued as my reaching for a weapon of my own.

  Traffic stops are dangerous. A nonconfrontational encounter can turn deadly in a heartbeat. I was a stranger sitting in a parked car. He knew nothing of my criminal history and nothing of my purpose. What had April complained about? Harassment? A threat to her personal safety?

  I pressed the button that lowered the driver’s-side window and then put both hands on the steering wheel where he could see them. I could write a primer on how to behave in the presence of law enforcement, which basically boils down to good manners and abject obedience. He leaned toward me, holding a flashlight in his left hand. He trained the light on the dashboard, not because there was anything to be seen, but because the device was equipped to pick up any hint of alcohol on my breath.

  “Afternoon.” He was white, in his fifties, clean-shaven, and looked like he could pack a punch.

  I said, “Hi.”

  “May I see your vehicle registration and proof of insurance?”

  “They’re in the glove compartment.”

  He gestured. I flipped open the glove compartment and pawed through the papers until I found the documents, which I handed to him. He took his time examining both documents before handing them back. “You have identification?”

  “I can show you my driver’s license and a photocopy of my private investigator’s license.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  I took out my wallet and opened it to the window where my California driver’s license was displayed. “Is there a problem?”

  “Can you remove the license?”

  I removed my driver’s license and handed it to him along with my PI license. He gave the latter a perfunctory glance and then returned it, unimpressed.

  “Wait here.”

  In the side- and rearview mirrors, I watched him amble back to his patrol car. I knew he’d call in my plate number to see if I had outstanding wants or warrants, which I did not. April must have dialed 9-1-1 the minute she hung up. I wondered if she remembered my reference to the mailing pouch. Now I was sorry I’d mentioned it because I couldn’t think how to explain why the package in my possession intended for her was addressed to a Catholic priest in Burning Oaks. If I were quizzed on the subject, my long-winded account would sound like a fairy tale and the chain of events would be irrelevant. He had arrived in response to a complaint and he wasn’t responsible for verifying my claim. Briefly, I entertained the notion of having him deliver the package on my behalf, thinking surely April would be receptive if a deputy served as a go-between. Belatedly, I realized I hadn’t noted his name.

  I waited patiently, demonstrating what a model citizen I was. Cooperative. Unarmed. This was all part of the game. The deputy exercised control, and I showed him the obligatory respect while the mini-drama played out. Not a problem for me, officer. I could sit here all day. He’d put me through my paces, after which he’d caution me politely and I’d respond in kind.

  I stared straight ahead, resigned to my fate. A car turned the corner at the far end of the block and headed in my direction. The vehicle was a late-model Ford, black, with a solo male driver, who slowed in front of April’s house and pulled to the curb with his car facing mine, perhaps a hundred feet away. He got out. Caucasian, middle-aged, tall and lean, wearing a tan poplin raincoat. I knew the face. Ned Lowe looked better now than he had in high school, which I hope can be said of all of us. Given Taryn’s account of him, I’d anticipated a man whose manner was intimidating. Not so. There was nothing menacing in his body language. His complexion was pale. He looked tired. Under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn’t have given him a second thought.

  April must have been watching for her father’s arrival. She opened the front door, closed it behind her, and waited on the porch. She had shoulder-length dark hair and that was as much as I could determine, except for the short-sleeve cotton maternity top she wore. She had her bare arms crossed in front of her. I assumed she was a solid eight months pregnant. Since she and her orthodontist husband had been married a little over a year, this was probably her first.

  Ned crossed the lawn to the porch, where he and April had a brief conversation, both of them staring at me. From his raincoat pocket, he pulled a small spiral-bound notebook, jotting down what I imagined was the color, make, and model of my car, as well as my license plate number in case I ever showed up again. April’s next-door neighbor appeared on her porch, so I was now the object of her curiosity as well.

  The deputy took his time on the return. So far, he hadn’t said a word about my vehicular sins. That’s because I hadn’t committed any. He didn’t even have grounds to cite me for a faulty brake light or an expired license tag. Even so, there was something embarrassing about the whole episode, which must have suited Ned Lowe to a T. Now that I thought about it, April had probably called him and he was the one who’d called the sheriff’s department.

  The deputy leaned forward and returned my license. His name tag read M. FITZMORRIS. No hint of his first name. Surely he wasn�
��t Morris Fitzmorris, though I’ve heard of parents who do that sort of thing. He looked more like a Michael; big guy, dark-haired, good posture, his back ramrod straight. “You have business in the neighborhood, Ms. Millhone?”

  “Not now,” I said.

  Ned beckoned from the porch. “Officer? Could I have a word with you?”

  Fitzmorris turned and moved up the walk in his direction while Ned approached from the porch. The two met at the midpoint and conferred. This consisted of Ned doing all the talking while the deputy nodded now and then. I had no choice but to wait. Throughout their exchange, Ned’s gaze was fixed on me, and I was conscious of his scrutiny. I didn’t look at him directly, but I was acutely aware of him in my peripheral vision. I knew he wanted me to make eye contact so he could establish his superior position. One glimpse was all it would have taken. In a sixth-grade staring contest, the point is to hold your opponent’s gaze without faltering. The first person who breaks eye contact loses. Here, the point was just the opposite. He willed me to look at him. I kept my eyes averted, suppressing the urge.

  Deputy Fitzmorris returned to my car and reported Ned’s comments. “Mr. Lowe is concerned about a possible shakedown. His word, not mine.”

  “A shakedown?”

  “His daughter says you wanted to deliver gifts her mother ordered before she died. It was her impression you expected cash on delivery.”

  “I never said anything of the sort. What gifts? I’m not delivering anything. You can search my trunk if you don’t want to take my word for it.” I was hoping it wouldn’t occur to him to ask why I’d called her in the first place.

  He kept his tone neutral. “Mr. Lowe wants your assurance you won’t approach the house or initiate contact with Mrs. Staehlings.”

  “What is he talking about? I haven’t stepped out of my car and I haven’t exchanged a word with either one of them. Could you make a note of that in your report?”

  “I will do that,” he said. “I can see there was a miscommunication. I’m not sure how you two got crosswise with each other, but people sometimes jump to conclusions and the situation escalates. I think cooler heads will prevail. I’m sure Mr. Lowe and his daughter will be good with this.”