E Is for Evidence Page 10

  "What brought you back?"

  "I don't know. Homesick, I guess. A friend of mine was heading this way so I tagged a ride. Did I wake you up?"

  "No, I often walk around looking like this."

  A slight smile here, perfectly timed. His manner seemed hesitant, which was unusual for him. He was searching the sight of me, looking (perhaps) for some evidence of the girl I used to be.

  "I like the haircut," he said.

  "Gee, this is fun. I like yours, too."

  "I guess I caught you at a bad time. I'm sorry about that."

  "Uh, Daniel, could we skip to the punch line here? I'm operating on an hour's sleep and I feel like shit."

  It was clear he'd rehearsed this whole conversation, but in his mind my response was tender instead of downright rude. "I wanted you to know I'm clean," he said. "I have been for a year. No drugs. No drinking. It hasn't been easy, but I really have straightened up."

  "Super. I'm thrilled. It's about bloody time."

  "Could you knock off the sarcasm?"

  "That's my natural way of speaking ever since you left. It's real popular with men."

  He rocked slightly on his heels, looking off across the yard. "I guess people don't get a second chance with you."

  I didn't bother to respond to that.

  He tried a new tack. "Look. I have a therapist named Elise. She was the one who suggested I clean up the unfinished business in my life. She thought maybe you might benefit, too."

  "Oh, hey. That's swell. Give me her address and I'll write her a bread-and-butter note."

  "Can I come in?"

  "Jesus Christ, Daniel, of course not! Don't you get it yet? I haven't seen you for eight years and it turns out that's not long enough."

  "How can you be so hostile after all this time? I don't feel bad about you."

  "Why would you feel bad? I didn't do anything to you!"

  A look of injury crossed his face and his bewilderment seemed genuine. There's a certain class of people who will do you in and then remain completely mystified by the depth of your pain. He shifted his weight. This apparently wasn't going as he thought it would. He reached up to pick at a wood splinter in the door frame above my head. "I didn't think you'd be bitter. That's not like you, Kinsey. We had some good years."

  "Year. Singular. Eleven months and six days, to be exact. You might move your hand before I slam the door on it."

  He moved his hand.

  I slammed the door and went back to bed.

  After a few minutes, I heard the gate squeak.

  I thrashed about for a while, but it was clear I wouldn't get back to sleep. I got up and brushed my teeth, showered, shampooed my hair, shaved my legs. I used to have fantasies about his showing up. I used to invent long monologues in which I poured out my sorrow and my rage. Now I was wishing he'd come back again so I could do a better job of it. Being rejected is burdensome that way. You're left with emotional baggage you unload on everyone else. It's not just the fact of betrayal, but the person you become... usually not very nice. Jonah had survived my tartness. He seemed to understand it had nothing to do with him. He was so blunt himself that a little rudeness didn't bother him. For my part, I really thought I'd made my peace with the past until I came face to face with it.

  I called Olive Kohler and made an appointment to see her later in the day. Then I sat down at my desk and typed up my notes. At noon, I decided to get some errands done. Daniel was sitting in a car parked just behind mine. He was slouched down in the passenger seat, his booted feet propped up on the dashboard, a cowboy hat tilted over his face. The car was a ten-year-old Pinto, dark blue, dented, rusted, and stripped of its hubcaps. The sheepskin car-seat covers looked like badly matted dog. A decal on the bumper indicated that the car was from Rent-A-Ruin.

  Daniel must have heard the gate squeak as I came out. He turned his head, pushing his hat back lazily. He sometimes affects that aw-shucks attitude. "Feeling better (Miss Kitty)?"

  I unlocked my car and got in, started the engine and pulled away. I avoided the apartment for the rest of the day. I can't remember now half of what I did. Mostly I wasted time and resented the fact that I was not only out an office but banned from my own residence.

  At 5:00, with the aid of a street map, I found the Kohlers' house on an obscure leafy lane in Montebello. The property was hidden by a ten-foot hedge, the driveway barred by an electronically controlled wrought-iron gate. I parked out on the street and let myself in through a wooden gate embedded in the shrubbery. The house was a two-story, English Tudor style, with a steeply pitched shingled roof, half-timbered gables, and a handsome pattern of vertical beams across the front. The lot was large, shaded with sycamores and eucalyptus trees as smooth and gray as bare concrete. Dark-green ivy seemed to grow everywhere. A gardener, a graduate of the Walt Disney school of landscape maintenance, was visible, trimming the shrubs into animal shapes.

  The newspaper was resting on the doormat. I picked it up and then I rang the bell. I expected a maid, but Olive opened the door herself in a gray satin robe and low-heeled satin mules. I'd mostly seen those in Joan Crawford movies, and they looked like they'd be a trick to wear. I had brief visions of plopping around my apartment in backless bedroom slippers. Cigarette holder. Marcelled hair. I could have my eyebrows plucked back to ogee arches.

  "Hello, Kinsey. Come in. Terry's on his way. I forgot we were due at a cocktail party at six." She stepped away from the door and I followed her in.

  "We can do this another time if you like," I said. I handed her the paper.

  "Thanks. No, no. This is fine. It's not for an hour anyway and the people don't live far. I've got to finish dressing, but we can talk in here." She glanced at the paper briefly and then tossed it on the hall table next to a pile of mail.

  She clattered her way along the dark stone-tile hallway toward the master suite at the rear of the house. Olive was slim and blond, her shoulder-length hair blunt-cut and thick. I wondered sometimes if Ash was the only sister whose hair remained its natural shade. Olive's eyes were bright blue, her lashes black, her skin tone gold. She was thirty-three or so, not as brittle as Ebony, but with none of Ash's warmth. She was talking back over her shoulder to me.

  "I haven't seen you for ten years. What have you been up to?"

  "Setting up my own agency," I said.

  "Married? Kids?"

  "No, on both counts. You have kids?"

  She laughed. "God forbid."

  The bedroom we entered was spacious. Beamed ceiling, big stone fireplace, French doors opening onto a walled-in patio where a small deck had been added on. I could see a round two-person hot tub, surrounded by ferns. A white Persian cat was curled up on a chaise, its face tucked into the circling plume of its tail.

  The bedroom floor was polished teak with area rugs of a long white wool that probably came from yaks. The entire wall behind the bed was mirrored and I flashed on an image of Terry Kohler's sexual performances. What did Olive stare at, I wondered, while he watched himself? I glanced at the ceiling, checking to see if there was a cartoon tacked up there, like the one in my gynecologist's examining room: "Smile. It gives your face something to do!" This does not amuse.

  I eased into an easy chair and watched while Olive moved into a walk-in closet the size of a two-car garage. Quickly she began to sort through a rack of evening clothes, rejecting sequined outfits, floor-length organza gowns, beaded jackets with long, matching skirts. I could see an assortment of shoes stacked in clear plastic boxes on the shelf overhead, and at one end of the rack, several fur coats of various lengths and types. She selected a knee-length cocktail dress with spaghetti straps and returned to the bedroom where she scrutinized her reflection. The dress was avocado green, infusing her skin with sallow undertones.

  "What do you think?" she said, eyes still pinned to her own image in the glass.

  "Makes you look green."

  She stared at herself, squinting critically. "You're right. Here. You take this. I never like
d it anyway." She tossed the dress on the bed.

  "I don't wear clothes like that," I said uncomfortably.

  "Take it. We'll have a New Year's Eve party and you can wear it then." She pulled out a black taffeta dress cut straight across the front. She stepped into it, then zipped it up the back in a motion that snapped everything into place. She was so slender I didn't see how the globelike breasts could possibly be hers. She looked like she'd had softballs surgically implanted on her chest. Hug a woman like that and she was bound to leave dents.

  She sat down on the dressing-table bench and pulled on black panty hose, then slipped her feet into four-inch black spike heels. She looked gorgeous, all curves and flawless skin, the pale-blond hair brushing against her bare shoulders. She sorted through her jewelry box and selected clip-on diamond earrings shaped like delicate silver branches hung with sparkling fruit.

  She returned to the closet and emerged in a soft, white fur coat the same length as the dress. When she pulled the coat around her, she looked like a flasher decked out in white fox.

  She half-smiled when she caught my look. "I know what you're thinking, sweetie, but they were already dead when I got to the furrier's. Whether or not I bought the coat had no effect on their fates."

  "If women didn't wear them, they wouldn't be killed in the first place," I said.

  "Oh, bullshit. Don't kid yourself. In the wild, these animals get torn to shreds every day. Why not preserve the beauty, like a piece of art? The world's a vicious place. I don't pretend otherwise. And don't argue with me," she said, firmly. She pointed a finger. "You came to talk, so talk." She slipped the coat off and tossed it on the bed, then sat down on the bench and crossed her legs. She eased off one high heel and let her shoe flap against the bottom of her foot.

  I said, "How much do you know about the situation at Wood/Warren?"

  She gestured impatiently. "Business is a bore. I use that section of the paper to line the cat box."

  "You have no interest in the family split?"

  "What split? You mean with Lance? I have nothing invested one way or the other. He and Ebony disagree. She wants me to vote with her. The way she explains it, it's to my advantage. Lance will have a fit, of course, but who gives a shit? He's had his chance."

  "You're siding with her?"

  "Who knows? Probably. She's smarter than he is and it's time for new blood. He's got his head in the toilet half the time."

  "Meaning what?"

  "Let me give you the lowdown on my brother, honey-bun. He's a salesman at heart. He can charm your socks off when it suits him. He's enthusiastic about anything that interests him, which isn't much. He has no head for figures. Absolutely none. He hates sitting in an office and he can't stand routine. He's good at generating business and lousy at follow-through. End transmission."

  "You've seen this firsthand or is this Ebony's claim?"

  "I hear about what happens at the plant every day. Terry's a workaholic and most of what he talks about is business."

  "How do he and Lance get along?"

  "They knock heads all the time. Terry's obsessive. It drives him crazy when people fuck up. Excuse the scientific term. Lance has poor judgment. Everyone knows that. Meet the woman he married if you have any doubts."

  "What about the rest of the family? Can't they vote him out?"

  "Nope. The rest of us combined only own forty-nine percent of the stock. Ebony wants to put the squeeze on him, but she can't actually force him out. She can bring him to heel, which I suspect is what she wants."

  "I take it Bass isn't involved since he lives in New York."

  "He shows up for board meetings occasionally. He enjoys playing mogul, but he's harmless enough. He and Lance are usually thick."

  "Who will Ashley side with?"

  "She could go either way. Obviously, Ebony's hoping she can persuade us all to mutiny."

  "How does your mother feel? This couldn't sit well with her."

  "She hates it. She wants Lance in charge. Not because he's good, but because it's less hassle."

  "Do you think he's honest?"

  "Lance? Are you kidding? No way."

  "How do you and he get along?"

  "I can't stand him. He's a very tense person and he's soooo paranoid. I hate to be around him. He gets on my nerves. He's my brother and I love him, don't get me wrong. I just don't like him much." She wrinkled her nose. "He always smells like garlic and sweat and that nasty Brut cologne. I don't know why men wear it. Such a turnoff."

  "Have you heard any gossip about the warehouse blaze?"

  "Just what Terry's told me. You know Lance borrowed money against the company two years ago and now he's losing his shirt. He'd love half a million bucks."

  "Oh really. That's the first I heard of it."

  She shrugged carelessly. "He went into the printing business, which is foolish in itself. I've heard printing and restaurants are the quickest way to go broke. He's lucky the warehouse burned down. Or is that the point?"

  "Why don't you tell me?"

  She rested her elbow on her knee and propped her chin up on her fist. "If you're looking for answers, I've just run out. I don't care about Lance. I don't care about Wood/ Warren, to tell you the truth. Sometimes the politics amuse me in a soap-opera kind of way, like Dynasty, but it's still boring stuff."

  "What do you care about?"

  "Tennis. Travel. Clothes. Golf. What else is there?"

  "Sounds like a fun life."

  "Actually, it is. I entertain. I do charity work when I have the time. There are people who think I'm a spoiled, lazy bitch, but I have what I want. That's more than most can say. It's the have-nots who wreak havoc. I'm a real pussycat."

  "You're fortunate."

  "Like they say, there's no such thing as a free ride. I pay a price, believe me."

  I could see what an exhausting proposition that must be.

  We heard someone at the entrance, then footsteps along the hall. By the time Terry Kohler reached the bedroom door, he was already in the process of removing his coat and tie.

  "Hello, Kinsey. Olive mentioned you'd be stopping by. Let me grab a quick shower and then we can talk." He looked at Olive. "Could you fetch us a drink?" he said, his tone peremptory.

  She didn't exactly perk up and pant, but that's the impression she gave. Maybe her job was harder than I thought. I wouldn't do that for anyone.

  Chapter 13

  * * *

  I waited in the living room while Olive stepped into the kitchen. The place was handsome; beveled windowpanes, pecan paneling, a fieldstone fireplace, traditional furniture in damask and mahogany. Everything was rose and dusty pink. The room smelled faintly spicy, like carnations. I couldn't imagine the two of them sitting here doing anything. Aside from the conventional good taste, there was no indication that they listened to music or read books. No evidence of shared interests. There was a current copy of Architectural Digest on the coffee table, but it looked like a prop. I've never known rich people to read Popular Mechanics, Family Circle, or Road 6-Track. Come to think of it, I have no idea what they do at night.

  Olive returned in ten minutes with a tray of hors d'oeuvres and a silver cooler with a wine bottle nestled in ice. Her entire manner had changed since Terry walked in the door. She still had an air of elegance, but her manner was tinged now with servitude. She fussed with small linen cocktail napkins, arranging them in a pattern near the serving plate she'd placed at one end of the coffee table. She'd prepared ripe figs stuffed with mascarpone cheese, triangles of phyllo, and chilled new potato halves topped with sour cream and caviar. If I called this my dinner, would all of my nutritional needs be met?

  Olive crossed briskly to a sideboard and set out liquor bottles so we'd have a choice of drinks. The room was beginning to darken and she turned on two table lamps. The panels of her taffeta skirt made a silky scritching sound every time she moved. Her legs were well muscled and the spike heels threw her calves into high relief.

  I glanced ove
r to see Terry standing in the doorway, freshly showered and dressed, his gaze lingering on the picture she presented. He caught my eye, smiling with the barest suggestion of proprietorship. He didn't look like an easy man to please.

  "Gorgeous house," I said.

  Olive looked over with a rare smile. "Thanks," she said.

  "Have a seat," he said.

  "I don't want to hold you up."

  Terry waved dismissively, as if the pending conversation took precedence. The gesture had the same ingratiating effect as someone who tells his secretary to hold all the calls. It's probably bullshit... maybe no one ever calls anyway... but it gives the visitor a feeling of importance.

  "He'd never pass up a chance to talk business," Olive said. She handed him a martini and then glanced at me. "What would you like?"

  "The white wine, if I may."

  While I looked on, she opened the bottle, pouring a glass for me and then one for herself. She handed me mine and then eased out of her shoes and took a seat on the couch, tucking her feet up under her. She seemed softer, less egotistical. The role of helpmeet suited her, which surprised me, somehow. She was a woman who had no apparent purpose beyond indulging herself and pampering "her man." The notion seemed outdated in a world of career women and supermoms.

  Terry perched on the arm of the couch, staring at me with guarded interest. He took charge of the conversation, a move he must have been accustomed to. His dark eyes gave his narrow face a brooding look, but his manner was pleasant. He made only an occasional digital reference to the fact of his moustache. I've seen men who stroke their facial hair incessantly, as if it were the last remnant of a baby bunting, comforting and soft. "Lance says someone tried to frame you," he said. He ate a new potato half and passed the plate to me.

  "Looks that way," I said. I helped myself to a fig. Heaven on the tongue.

  "What do you need from us?"

  "For starters, I'm hoping you can fill me in on Ava Daugherty."

  "Ava? Sure. What's she got to do with it?"

  "She was there the day I did the fire-scene inspection. She also saw Heather give me the envelope full of inventory sheets, which have since disappeared."