K is for KILLER Read online

  I couldn’t take my eyes off him. The illusion had been perfect. “Do you do this every day? Dress up in women’s clothes?”

  “Most days. After work. From nine to five, I’m Russell: tie, sport coat, button-down collar, the whole bit. I don’t wear wingtips, but the moral and spiritual equivalent.”

  “What sort of work do you do?”

  “I’m the assistant manager at the local Circuit City, selling stereo systems. Nights, I can relax and do anything I want.”

  “You don’t make a living from the acting?”

  “Oh. You saw the film,” he said. “I hardly made a dime, and it never went anywhere, which I must say was a relief. Think of the irony of getting famous as Russell, when I’m really Cherie at heart.”

  “I just talked to Joe Ayers at his place. He says he sold his company.”

  “Trying to turn respectable, I’d imagine.” He raised his eyebrows, smiling slightly. His expression suggested there was no real chance of that. Foundation gone, he took a cotton ball and soaked it with skin toner. He began to wipe off the cold cream and any remaining traces of makeup.

  “How many films did you make for him?”

  “Just the one.”

  “Were you disappointed it was never released?”

  “I was at the time. I’ve realized since then that I don’t care to capitalize on my ‘equipment.’ I despise being male. I really hate all the macho posturing and bullshit, all the effort it takes. It’s much more fun being female. Sometimes I’m tempted to do away with ‘it,’ but I can’t bear to have myself surgically altered, as endowed as I am. Maybe an organ donor program would be interested,” he said. He waved a hand airily. “But enough of my tacky problems. What else can I tell you about Lorna?”

  “I’m not sure. I gather you really didn’t know her that well.”

  “That depends on your frame of reference. We spent two days together while the film was being shot. We had an instant rapport and laughed our tiny asses off. She was such a kick. Kinky and fearless, with a wicked sense of humor. We were soul sisters. I mean that. I was heartbroken when I heard that she had died, of all things.”

  “That was the only time you saw her? During the filming?”

  “No, I ran into her maybe two months later, up here shopping with that piggy-looking sister.”

  “Which one? She has two.”

  “Oh, really. I can’t remember the name. Something odd, as I recall. She looked like an imitation Lorna: same face, but all porked out. Anyway, I saw them on the street down around Union Square, and we stopped to chat about nothing in particular. She looked spectacular as ever. That’s the last I saw of her.”

  “What about the other actress, Nancy Dobbs? Was she a friend of Lorna’s?”

  “Oh, gawd. Wasn’t she the worst? Talk about wooden.”

  “She was pretty bad,” I admitted. “Has she done other films for Ayers?”

  “I doubt it. In fact, I’m sure not. I think she just did that one as a lark. Someone else had been hired and opted out at the last minute. Lorna had her pegged. Nancy was terribly ambitious, without the talent or the body to get very far. She’s one of those women who’d try to screw her way to the top, only no one would have her, so how far could she get? What a dog.” Russell laughed. “Actually, she’d have screwed a dog if she’d thought it would help.”

  “How’d she get along with Lorna?”

  “As far as I know, they never had any kind of snit, but privately each felt infinitely superior to the other. I know because they both took to confiding in me between takes.”

  “Is she still in the city? I’d like to talk to her.”

  Russell looked at me with surprise. “You didn’t see her tonight? I thought you must have talked to her at Ayers’s little soiree.”

  “What would she be doing there?”

  “She’s married to him. That’s the point, isn’t it? All during the shoot, she really flung herself at him. Next thing we heard… wahlah. She was Mrs. Joseph Ayers, noted socialite. It’s probably why he dumped the porno flick. Imagine that getting out. He calls her ‘Duchess,’ by the way. Isn’t that pretentious?”

  “Was there ever a suggestion that Joe Ayers’s relationship with Lorna was other than professional?”

  “He was never involved with her sexually, if that’s what you mean. It’s really a bit of a cliché to imagine these guys are out ‘sampling the merchandise.’ Believe me, his only interest was in making a buck.”

  “Lorna’s mother seems to think her death was related to the film somehow.”

  “Possible, I suppose, but why would anybody kill her for that? She might have been a star if she’d lived. As for those of us who worked on it, trust me, we got along. We were all so grateful for the opportunity, we made a point of it,” he said. “How in the world did her mother find out?”

  “Somebody sent her the tape.”

  Russell stared at my reflection in the mirror. “As an expression of condolences, that’s in poor taste,” he said. “You’d have to wonder at the motive.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  I went back to the motel, feeling wide awake. By two in the morning Santa Teresa has shut down. In San Francisco all the bars had closed, but numerous businesses were still open: gas stations, bookstores, fitness gyms, video rentals, coffee shops, even clothing stores. I changed out of my flats and the all-purpose dress, stripping off my panty hose with the same relief Cherie had expressed. Once in my jeans and turtleneck, I felt like I was back in my own skin again. I found an all-night diner two doors away from the Del Rey and ate a lavish breakfast. I returned to my room and put the chain on the track. I plunked off my Reeboks, propped all the pillows at my back, and checked Lorna’s file again, leafing through the crime scene sketches and the accompanying pictures.

  The photographer had shot the outside of the house, front yard and back, with views looking north, south, east, and west. There were shots of both the front and back porches, wood railings, windows. The front door had been closed, but unlocked, with no signs of forced entry. Within the cabin itself, there was no weapon visible and no evidence of a struggle. I could see colored smudges where the fingerprint technicians had been at work with their various powders. According to the report, elimination fingerprints and palm prints had been taken, and most latents on the premises had been accounted for. Many were Lorna’s. Some were from family members, the landlord, her friend Danielle, a couple of acquaintances who’d been interviewed by homicide investigators. Many surfaces had been wiped clean.

  The photographs of Lorna began in long shot, establishing her position relative to the front door. There were intermediate-range photos, close-ups with a six-inch ruler in evidence to indicate scale. The log showed an orderly progression through the area. I was frustrated by the flat, two-dimensional images. I wanted to crawl into the frame, examine all the items on the tabletops, open up the drawers, and pick through the contents. I found myself squinting, moving pictures closer to my face and then back again, as if the subject matter might suddenly leap into sharper focus. I would stare at the body, scanning the background, taking in items through my peripheral vision.

  The cabin, when I’d seen it, had been stripped of all the furniture. Only the bare bones of Lorna’s living space were left intact: empty cabinets and bathroom, plumbing, and electrical fixtures. It was good to see the pictures, to correct my mental process. In memory, I had already begun to distort the room sizes and relative distances. I went through all the pictures a second time and then a third. In the ten months since Lorna’s death, the crime scene had been dismantled, and this was all that remained. If murder were ever proved and a suspect charged, the entire case could easily rest on the contents of this envelope. And what were the chances? What could I possibly hope to accomplish this late in the game? Basically, in my investigation, I was mimicking the spiral method of a crime scene search: starting at the center, moving outward and around in ever-widening circles. The problem was that I had no dir
ection and no hard line to take. I didn’t even have a theory about why she had died. I felt as though I were fishing, fly casting in the hopes that I’d somehow snag myself a killer. All that wily devil had to do was lie low, looking up at my lure from the bottom of the cove.

  I sorted through the file while I let my mind wander. Aside from the random or the serial killer, the perpetrator of a homicide has to have a reason, some concrete motive for wanting the victim dead. In the case of Lorna Kepler, I was still uncertain what the reason was. Financial gain was a possibility. She’d had assets in her estate. I made a note to myself to check with Janice on that score. Given the assumption that Lorna had no living issue, Janice and Mace would be her legal heirs if she died intestate. It was hard to picture either one of them guilty of murder. For one thing, if it were Janice, she’d have to be a fool to turn around and bring me into it. Mace was a question mark. He certainly hadn’t conformed to my notion of a grieving parent. Her sisters were another possibility, though neither struck me as sufficiently smart or sufficiently energetic.

  I picked up the phone and dialed Frankie’s Coffee Shop. This time Janice answered. I could hear jukebox music in the background, but not much else.

  “Hi, Janice. This is Kinsey, up in San Francisco.”

  “Well, Kinsey. How are you? I’m always surprised to hear from you at such an hour. Did you find the fellow she was working for?”

  “I talked to him this evening, and I also tracked down one of the other actors in the film. I haven’t made up my mind about either one of them. In the meantime, something else has come up. I’m wondering if I could take a look at Lorna’s financial records.”

  “I suppose so. Can you say why, or is that classified?”

  “Nothing’s classified between us. You’re paying for my services. I’m trying to pin down a motive. Money’s an obvious possibility.”

  “I guess that’s true, but it’s hard to see how it could apply in this case. None of us had any idea she had money until after she died and we went through her files. I’m still in shock. It was unbelievable, given my perception. I was forever slipping her a twenty just to make sure she’d eat right. And there she was with all those stocks and bonds and savings accounts. She must have had six. You’d think with that kind of money, she’d have lived a little better.”

  I wanted to tell her the money was part of Lorna’s pension fund, but it seemed unkind somehow since she hadn’t lived long enough to use it. “Did she have a will?”

  “Well, yes. Just one sheet of paper that she’d written out herself. She left everything to Mace and me.” ‘

  “I’d like to see that, if you don’t object.”

  “You can see anything you want. When I get home from work, I’ll find the box of Lorna’s personal effects and leave it on Berlyn’s desk. You can stop by when you get back and pick it up from her.”

  “I’d appreciate that. I want to talk to the two of them, in any event.”

  “Oh, shoot, and that reminds me. Have you talked to that woman Lorna used to house-sit for?”

  “Once.”

  “Well, I wonder if you’d do me a favor. Last time I went through Lorna’s things, I came across a set of house keys I’m sure belong to her. I’ve been trying to return them and haven’t had a minute to take care of it.”

  “You want me to drop them off?”

  “If you would. I feel like I should do it myself, but I just don’t have time. And I’d appreciate it if you’d make sure I get everything back when you finish going through it. There’s some dividend and interest statements I’m going to need to pass along to the probate attorney when he files her income taxes.”

  “Has the estate been settled yet?”

  “It’s still in the works. What I’m giving you is copies, but I’d still like to have them back.”

  “No problem. I can probably drop it all off to you day after tomorrow.”

  “That’d be fine.” I could hear the swell of chatter in the background. She said, “Uh-oh. I got to go.”

  “See you tomorrow,” I said, and hung up.

  I looked around at the room, which was serviceable but glum. The mattress was as dense as mud, while the pillows were foam rubber and threatened serious neck damage. I’d made reservations for a noon flight out of San Francisco. It was now almost three a.m. I wasn’t ready to sleep. If I junked my return ticket, I could drive the rental car back and drop it at the airport in Santa Teresa, where my VW was sitting in the long-term parking lot. The trip would take roughly six hours, and if I could manage to avoid dozing off at the wheel, I’d be back around nine.

  I suddenly found myself energized by the notion of heading home. I swung my feet over the side of the bed, found my Reeboks, pulled them on, and left the laces dangling. I went into the bathroom, gathered up my toiletries, and shoved everything in the duffel. It took me longer to wake the night manager than it took me to check out. By 3:22 I was heading south on the 101.

  There’s nothing as hypnotic as a highway at night. Visual stimulation is reduced to the lines on the road, asphalt zipping past in a series of streaks. Any shrubbery at the side of the road is diminished to a blur. All the trailer trucks were in transit, semis carrying goods that ranged from new cars to furniture, from flammable liquids to flattened cardboard boxes. Off to the side, I caught sight of townlet after townlet encased in darkness, illuminated only by rows of street lamps. An occasional billboard provided visual distraction. At long intervals a truck stop appeared, like an island of light.

  I had to stop twice for coffee. Having opted to head back, I now found the drive narcotic and was struggling to stay awake. The radio in the rental car was good company. I flipped from station to station, listening to a talk show host, classical and country music, and countless newscasts. Once upon a time I’d smoked cigarettes, and I could still remember the habit as a way of marking time on car trips. Now I’d rather drive off a bridge than light up. Another hour passed. It was nearly dawn and the sky was turning white, the trees along the road beginning to reclaim their color, now charcoal green and dark chartreuse. Dimly I was aware of the sun coming up like a beachball into my line of vision, the colors of the sky shading up from dark gray to mauve to peach to bright yellow. I had to flip down the visor to keep the glare out of my eyes.

  By 9:14 I’d turned in the rental and picked up my VW and I was pulling into a parking place in front of my apartment. My eyes felt itchy and I ached from a weariness that felt like the flu, but at least I was home. I let myself in, checked to see that there were no messages, brushed my teeth, took my shoes off, and fell into bed.

  For once, sleep descended like a blow to the head, and I went down, down, down.

  I woke at 5:00 p.m. The eight hours should have been adequate, but as starved as I was for sleep, I felt I was dragging myself out of quicksand. I was still struggling to adjust to the inverted pattern my life had taken. In bed at dawn, up again in the afternoon. I was eating breakfast at lunchtime, dinner in the dead of night, though often that meal turned out to be cold cereal or scrambled eggs and toast, which meant I ate breakfast twice. I was vaguely aware of a psychological shift, a change in my perception now that I’d substituted night for day. Like a form of jet lag, my internal clock was no longer synchronized with the rest of the world’s. My usual sense of myself was breaking down, and I wondered if a hidden personality might suddenly emerge as if wakened from a long sleep. My day life was calling, and I was curiously reluctant to answer.

  I rolled out of bed, dumped my dirty clothes, took a shower, and got dressed. I stopped at a minimart where I grabbed a carton of yogurt and an apple, eating in my car as I headed over to the Keplers’. I could have used a couple more hours of sleep, but I was hoping to talk to Lorna’s sisters before their mother woke up. Like me, her days and nights were turned around, and I felt a strange bond with her.

  Mace’s plumbing truck wasn’t parked in the drive this time. I left my VW on the berm, by the white split-rail fence, and moved up the
walk to the porch, where I knocked. Trinny answered the door, though it took her a while. “Oh, hi. Mom worked a double shift and she’s not up yet.”

  “I figured as much. She said she’d tuck some information in a box and leave it with Berlyn.”

  “She’s not here right now. She’s running some errands. You want to come in and wait?”

  “Thanks.” I followed her through the small, densely furnished living room to the dining area, which was located at one end of the kitchen. Sunset wasn’t far off, and the kitchen windows were getting dark, lending the lighted kitchen an artificial air of warmth. An ironing board had been set up, and the scent of freshly pressed cotton made me long for summer. “Mind if I take a look at Berlyn’s desk? If the box is close to the surface, I can go ahead and get it.”

  Trinny took up the iron again. “It’s right in there.” She pointed toward the door that led into the den.

  One corner of the room apparently doubled as the offices for Kepler Plumbing. I remembered seeing both the desk and the filing cabinet the night I talked to Mace. A banker’s box with my name scrawled on top was sitting right in plain sight. For once I resisted any further urge to snoop. I lifted the lid to check the contents. A fragrance wafted up, some delicate combination of citrus and spice. I closed my eyes, wondering if this was Lorna’s scent. I’d experienced it before – the very air saturated with someone’s characteristic smell. With men it’s after-shave, leather, or sweat. With women it’s cologne. The house keys Janice had mentioned were sitting on top of a neatly packed collection of file folders, all in alphabetical order: bank statements, past income taxes, dividends, stocks, assorted annual reports. Tucked into one end of the box was a folded cashmere scarf. I pressed the length of it against my face, smelling cut grass, cinnamon, lemon, and clove. I hauled the box back to the kitchen and set it by one of the kitchen chairs, the scarf laid on top, “Is this Lorna’s? It was in the box with her stuff.”

  Trinny shrugged. “I guess.”