P Is for Peril Read online

  Tommy touched my hand. "Where'd you disappear to?"

  I looked up to find him staring at me. I moved my fingers away from his. "Is this a date?"

  "Yes."

  "Because I don't date."

  "I can tell."

  "I'm serious," I said. "I'm not good at this boy-girl stuff."

  "You must be. You were married twice and now you have this other boyfriend on the string."

  "I've had guys in between. That doesn't mean I handle it well."

  "You do fine. I like you. You don't have to be a jerk. Lighten up."

  Humbled, I said, "Okay."

  When we left the restaurant at nine o'clock, the streets were still glistening with the rain, which had passed. I saw his Porsche parked across the street. The children's playground was dark and the boats in the marina beyond were bobbing dots of light. I waited while he unlocked the car and let me in. Once he fired up the engine, he said, "Something I want to show you. It's early yet. Okay?"

  He pulled away from the curb and did a U-turn on Cabana Boulevard. We drove west, passing the yacht harbor on our left and Santa Teresa City College on our right. Up the hill on Sea Shore. Left at the next big intersection. Without being told, I knew we were on our way to Horton Ravine. He smiled over at me. "I want to show you the house."

  "What about Richard? Won't he object?"

  "He drove down to Bell Garden to play poker tonight."

  "What if he loses and comes home?"

  "He won't come back until morning whatever happens."

  We drove through the stone pillars that marked the rear entrance to Horton Ravine. The road was wide and dark. Many properties on either side were unfenced and had the look of rural countryside: pastures and stables, house lights twinkling through the trees. The route he took was circuitous, and I suspected his intention was to demonstrate the power and handling of the Porsche. At length, he turned right and up a short driveway to a half-moon motorcourt. I caught a sweeping glimpse of the house: stucco walls, massive lines, red-tile roof. All the arches and balconies were washed with dramatic exterior lights. He reached for the remote garage-door opener, pressed a button, and then swung into the open bay of a four-car garage. The cavernous space was pristine; new white drywall that smelled of the plaster overcoating. Three spaces were empty. I imagined Richard driving a sports car as new and as flashy as Tommy's. I opened the car door on my side and let myself out while Tommy got out and fished for his house key. There were no shelves, no tools, and no junk piled up; no lawn chairs, no cardboard boxes marked XMAS ETC. He let us into the utility area off the kitchen. The indicator on the alarm panel by the door was dark. There was a half bath and maid's quarters to the left, a laundry room on the right. There were stacks of junk mail on the kitchen counters, catalogs and flyers. In a separate pile there were instruction manuals for the answering machine, the microwave oven, and the Cuisinart, which had clearly never been used. The floors were done in dull red Mexican pavers, sealed and polished to a high gloss. Tommy tossed his keys on the glossy white-tile counter. "So what do you think?"

  "No alarm system? That seems odd in a house this size."

  "Spoken like a cop. There's actually one installed, but it isn't hooked up. When we first moved in Richard set it off so often, the company started charging us fifty bucks a pop and the cops refused to show. We figured, what's the point?"

  "Let's hope the burglars haven't heard."

  "We're insured. Come on and I'll give you the ten-cent tour." He walked me through the house, pausing to fill me in on their decorating plans. On the first level, wide-plank oak floors stretched through the living room, dining room, family room, paneled den, and two guest rooms. The upstairs was fully carpeted in cream-colored wool; two master suites, a workout room, and enough closet space for ten. The place had the feel of a model home in a brand-new subdivision, minus all the furniture and foo-foo. Many rooms were empty, and those that had furniture seemed empty, nonetheless. I realized Tommy traveled light, like me – no kids, no pets, and no houseplants. In the family room, there was a fully stocked wet bar, too much black leather, and a big-screen television for sporting events. I didn't see any art or books, but maybe those were still packed away.

  In the bedrooms, it was clear they'd purchased entire suites of furniture off the showroom floor. All the pieces matched; light wood in Tommy's room – the style, "Moderne." In Richard's bedroom, the headboard, chest of drawers, armoire, and two bed tables were heavy and dark, the design faintly Spanish with wrought-iron pulls. Everything was spotlessly clean, which probably meant a crew of three coming in once a week.

  We made the complete circuit and ended up back in the kitchen. Both of us were conscious of the passage of time. Despite his earlier nonchalance, he seemed as aware as I was that Richard might roll in at any moment. He wasn't due for hours, but I could feel his presence like a ghost in every room. Tommy had made no further comment about his brother's chilly attitude and I didn't want to ask. For all I knew, the tension between them had nothing to do with me.

  Finally, in a show of bravado, Tommy said, "Would you like a drink?"

  "I think not, but thanks. I have work to do. I appreciate the tour. This is really great."

  "It needs work yet, but we like it. You'll have to see it by day. The landscaping's beautiful." He checked his watch. "I better get you home."

  I picked up my shoulder bag and followed him, waiting in the car while he locked the house again. In the confines of the Porsche, I was conscious of the charge in the air between us. We chatted on the drive, but it was make-work in the face of my attraction to him. He found a parking space near Rosie's, half a block from my place. He parallel parked and then came around the car again to let me out. He offered me his hand in support and I extracted myself with as much grace as I could manage. Sports cars should come equipped with quick-ejection seats.

  The crowd noise from Rosie's was muffled, but I was aware of the contrast between the raucous din in there and the quiet where we were. Residual rain dripped from the nearby trees and water gurgled along the gutters like a urban brook. We stood there for a moment, neither of us sure how to say good-night. He reached over idly and adjusted the metal clasp on the front of my slicker. "Don't want you wet. Can I walk you home?"

  "I'm just down there. You can almost see the place from here."

  He smiled. "I know. I got the address from your application and checked it out earlier. Looks nice."

  "You're nosy."

  "Where you're concerned," he said.

  He smiled again and I found myself glancing away. We both said "Well" at the same time and laughed. I walked backward a few steps, watching while he opened the door and folded himself under the steering wheel. He slammed the car door and moments later the engine rumbled to life. The headlights flicked on and he took off with a roar. I turned, proceeding to the corner while the sound of his car faded at the end of the block. I confess my underwear felt warm and ever so faintly damp.

  Chapter 12

  * * *

  Tuesday morning dawned in a haze of damp and fog. I went through my usual morning routine, including a jog so vigorous it left me rosy-cheeked and sweating. After breakfast, I spent some time working at home, finishing revisions on my report for Fiona. Maybe all these neatly typed pages would pass for progress in her eyes. This was one of the few times in my life when I could see that I might fail, and I was scared. I anticipated her return with the same enthusiasm I'd felt any time I had to have a shot as a kid.

  I left my apartment at 9:35. With the temporary break in the storm, large bands of blue sky had appeared between the clouds. The grass had turned emerald green and the leaves on all the trees were looking glossy and fresh. My appointment with Dow Purcell's best friend, Jacob Trigg, was scheduled for 10:00. I'd studied a city map, pinpointing his street address in the heart of Horton Ravine. I drove east along Cabana Boulevard and ascended the hill as it swept up from the beach. I turned left on Promontory Drive and followed the road along t
he bluffs that paralleled the beach. I turned left again and drove through the back entrance to Horton Ravine. Tommy crossed my mind and I smiled in a goofy glow I found embarrassing.

  A mile down the road, I saw the street I was looking for. I turned right through a warren of winding lanes and drove up the hill. Water rushed in a torrent along the berm and what looked like entire gravel driveways had washed out into the road. A tree with shallow roots had toppled backward, pulling up a half-moon of soil. Despite the numerous houses in the area, Mother Nature was busy reclaiming her own.

  I peered to my right, checking mailboxes as I crept along. I finally spotted the house number Jacob Trigg had given me. Enormous black wrought-iron gates stood open and I drove up a long curving lane between low stone walls. At the top of the slow rise, the parcel became flat and I could see gently undulating acreage sweeping out in all directions. The two-story house was Italianate in feel, elegant and plain with a symmetrical window placement and a small porch in front with a circular balustrade.

  I parked and got out. All the ground-floor windows were disconcertingly dark. There was no doorbell and no one answered my repeated knocks. I circled the house, checking for lights or other signs of the inhabitants. The air was still except for the occasional water dripping from the eaves. Had Trigg stood me up? I took a moment to check my bearings. Formal gardens stretched out on either side of house, but there was not a gardener in sight. Probably too wet to do much work.

  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 h
is 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."