All or Nothing (16 page)

Shit, Giraud thought. That took care of that––there was no way to check the records of a now–defunct auto dealership. And Miss Arden obviously had nothing more to say. Her antennae were already tuned in to the next episode of
General Hospital.
He said thank you and good–bye, but doubted she even heard him.

Outside, he took a few deep breaths and dusted himself off, feeling as though the smells of the house had adhered to him. He noticed the black widow spiders, four or five of them, not moving as he walked past. His skin crawled; he could almost feel the poisonous little bastards’ eyes, watching him.

Now what? he thought in the Jeep, driving slowly along the back roads into town. He had reached a dead end; there was no flight out of San Antonio until tomorrow and he was out here in the boondocks in a hundred and ten degrees with no bar in sight. Soon he would be hallucinating a bottle of Samuel Adams, frosted droplets dripping down its icy sides. Meanwhile, he would have to make do with a Coke from the machine at the Chevron station.

He drank it down, bought another and a packet of barbecue potato chips. Lunch, Texas style, he thought gloomily, eating them in the hot Jeep, wondering what to do next. He needed a shower and some sleep, then maybe his brain would come in from the heat and begin to function again.

Of course the motel was named The Bluebird, and of course it looked pretty much like Miss Arden’s ranch house, only bigger, and the smells here were of dry rot and Pine–Sol instead of cats. An electronic fly zapper in the stuffy reception room buzzed incessantly, and this time the TV was tuned to the racetrack. He watched interestedly for a minute or two while a swaybacked chestnut bolted from the back of the herd and headed like a homing missile for the finishing line.

“Good mover, that mare,” he said approvingly.

“Yeah, owned by a local family, the Harmons. She looks like hell but she sure can run. Just made myself a few bucks on her. Y’can trust her to make it over three furlongs, no more than that, though.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Giraud paid his thirty–five bucks and took the key to room number six. “I’ll remember her name if I ever see her at Del Mar.” He wasn’t strictly a betting man; he liked to see his horses in the flesh, racing their brave little hearts out, steaming and blowing and sweating with the effort. A racehorse was a thing of beauty, not just a machine to make money from. Though that was a nice incidental.

One day, when he was rich, he would own a couple of them just for the fun of it. He grinned at the thought as he opened the door to number six. He had about as much chance of owning racehorses as he did of owning one of those sleek little private jets Marla coveted. But she was right. A detective with his own plane would have been out of here, instead of stuck in unlovely room six with its brown carpet worn black in spots, its fake–wood nightstand and dresser, its printed “patchwork” quilt and cigarette–blistered Formica bathroom sink. At least the shower, though its chrome was rusty, gave out a plentiful supply of cold water. He stood under it for ten minutes, toweled off and stepped out feeling human again.

He threw back the bedspread and the top sheet. Thank God the sheets were clean, and he lay there, naked, thinking about things.
Harmon.
That name had cropped up twice now. The ex–owner of a car dealership and now a racehorse owner. Must’ve made a bit of money to be able to make that kind of a switch.

He opened the nightstand drawer and took out the telephone book. H . . . H . . . H . . . Harley, Harold, Harper . . . no Harmon. Shit.

He lay back against the pillows, hands behind his head, frowning. The Buick was here. Bonnie had to have been here. The goddamn answer was
here . . . 
somewhere.

He sat up and flicked through the H’s again, checking to see if he could have missed it . . . but no. He thought of Bonnie Victor/Laurie Martin. On a hunch, he checked both names. There was no Bonnie Victor, but there was an L. Martin. At 122 Linden Drive.

He was into his clothes and out the door before you could say Gwyneth Arden, asking the heavy better behind the counter for directions to Linden Drive.

Number 122 was as traditional as it got: white clapboard, a lumpy burnt–brown lawn with a pepper tree shedding like crazy all over it and a front porch with a rocker and an old Sears refrigerator. A woman was sitting in the rocker and she glanced up as Giraud parked in front of her lawn.

She was in her fifties, neat in a crisp red and white spotted cotton shirtwaist dress, with short, wavy gray hair pushed back behind her ears. She wore a string of pearls and little pearl studs and a gold V–shaped wedding band set, with a small–carat diamond. She looked what she was, a nice lady.

“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” Giraud called as he stepped from the car. “But could I have a word with you?”

She sighed, shaking her head. “Now, young man, if you’re selling somethin’, I just don’t want to buy. I can’t afford it.”

He laughed and she laughed along with him. “Well, ma’am, that’s nice and upfront,” he said, “but actually, I wanted to talk to you about a missing person. I’ve been assigned by the family to try to trace her and we know she spent some time here. I have a photograph, and I wondered if you might know her.”

“Why me?”

She was certainly not stupid, he thought. “It’s like this, ma’am, your name was found among her things, in her apartment . . . we’re checking everyone she knew.”

She nodded, and held out her hand. “Let me see that photograph.” He handed her John MacIver’s photo of Laurie, and waited patiently on the porch while she found her glasses, put them on then studied the photograph.

“Why, I surely do remember her,” she exclaimed. “That’s Bonnie Harmon. Though I almost didn’t recognize her. You see, she had red hair then. And I remember, she had this cute little black dog. Clyde, she called it. It wore a little red bandanna and I could see how she adored it.”

Bingo,
Giraud thought, remembering Miss Arden. “What did you say her name was then, Mrs. Martin?”

“Her name was Bonnie Harmon. At least it was later. When I first met her she was Bonnie something else, though I’m darned if I can remember what. Anyway, I’m sorry to hear she’s missing, though maybe I’m not surprised,” she added thoughtfully.

“So, how’d ya meet Bonnie, Mrs. Martin?”

“Oh, my, I’m forgetting my manners.” She waved him to a chair. “Please have a seat, Mr. . . .”

“Giraud. Al Giraud. And thank you.”

He took a seat on a white wicker chair opposite her.

“There’s a cold drink in that refrigerator if you want one,” she added hospitably. “Coke, Gatorade, just help yourself.”

“Thank you, ma’am, I surely will. It’s hot out today.”

She laughed, a small tinkling sound in keeping with her petite bird–boned appearance. “You think this is hot, Mr. Giraud, you should be here when we get the hot winds blowing. Temperature goes up another twenty degrees and you can fry your breakfast on the hood of your car. This is just pleasant–to–middling temperature.”

He laughed with her, then asked again where she had met Bonnie.

“I’d been eating lunch at the diner by the gas station near Lummond, a few miles down the highway headin’ west. It’s still there,” she added, “and I want to tell you they do the best peach pie in this country, as well as darn good chicken–fried steak. Still eat there regularly.

“Anyway, I’d lunched at the diner that day and before I left I visited the rest room, then went on my way. Ten minutes later I was halfway back to Falcon City when I remembered––I’d left my handbag there. So of course I turned around and went right back again, hoping to retrieve it. Though you never know, it’s a busy place, lots of people in and out all the time. . . .

“Anyway, as I came through the door a young woman was just handing it to the waitress.

“’Well, thank you, young lady,’ I said, and I surely was grateful. I’d been to the bank, had close on seventy dollars in there and my checkbook and ATM card.

“’You’re very welcome, ma’am,’ she said. “It was the only Christian thing to do.’

“And you know what, Mr. Giraud? That simple statement touched my heart. You see so few acts of good faith these days.

“Anyway, we got to chatting and she asked if I knew where she could sell her car. An old Buick she had parked outside. I told her the name of the local dealership I used myself and went there with her to make sure she got a good price. Then she asked if I could drop her off at a motel. Next thing she’s asking where the nearest Baptist church is. Now I’m Episcopalian myself, but I didn’t hold that against her. I just drove her there first. She introduced herself to the pastor, said she was staying in town and wanted to join his congregation.

“She was a good girl, alright, I could tell that. Kind of old–fashioned, y’know. With all that red hair tied back and no makeup, not even lipstick. Not a bad–lookin’ woman for all that, though.

“Anyway, after that I drove her to the nearest motel, told her if she needed any help just to call me. But I could see she was an independent sort. I wished her luck and went on my way.

“You can bet I was surprised a few months later when I read in the newspaper about the nuptials between her and old Boss Harmon, who was ninety if he was a day and rich with it. His family boycotted the marriage––it caused quite a scandal around here. And when Boss died a couple of months later in a fire––I believe she said he’d been smoking in bed––there was a lot of talk about it.”

“She inherit Boss Harmon’s money?”

“Well, now, that I don’t know. And she must have left town shortly after, because I’ve never seen her around.”

“Is that right?” Al nodded thoughtfully.

“So you can see why I was surprised when you showed me Bonnie’s picture. She’s blond now, though, but still you can see it’s Bonnie.”

Giraud put away the photograph, thanked Mrs. Martin for her time and her help, and for the Coke, and asked where he could find the Harmon family.

“Oh, the son and his wife moved on, after the fire. Sold the car dealership to Marstons, sold up their home and the old man’s property and went to live in San Antonio. I believe he has a couple more dealerships now, and that he owns racehorses.” She shook her head. “Boss Harmon must be turning in his grave. The old man never missed a Sunday at church and he was set against gambling and drinking and all those kind of vices.”

“Except smoking,” Giraud said.

Her brows lifted in surprise. “Except smoking,” she agreed.

San Antonio, population almost one million, and site of the Alamo, was a pleasant city, Spanish in feeling with shady plazas and waterways. Beau Harmon lived on the outskirts in a palatial, colonial–style mansion that Giraud thought bore more than a passing resemblance to Tara. Crunching up the wide sweep of gravel drive in the dusty rented Jeep, he figured that after all, Bonnie couldn’t have gotten away with too much of Boss Harmon’s loot. All she’d had to show for it was a nice condo and a leased Lexus while son Beau was living like a king.

He parked the Jeep in the shade of a towering live oak that was still planted in the giant wooden crate it had been shipped in––probably from some real plantation house where it had grown for more than half a century, he guessed. In fact, the whole of Beau Harmon’s estate had that raw look of newness about it. You could still see the seams in the turf on the vast lawn and practically smell the paint drying.

The wide front steps were marble and he walked up them and rang the bell. Somewhere inside he could hear it playing “Yellow Rose of Texas.” As he waited under the two–story colonnaded portico he laid bets with himself on what Beau Harmon would look like. J. R. Ewing? Lyndon Johnson? Barry Goldwater? Or John Wayne playing any one of the three?

He looked up interestedly as the door swung open, but it was a silver–haired man in a white coat and striped gray pants.

“Sir?” he said with a distinct British twang, taking in Giraud’s usual attire at a glance and lifting a supercilious eyebrow.

A butler! Giraud was impressed. He hadn’t realized car dealerships made this kind of money.

“Al Giraud for Mr. Harmon,” he said. “He’s expecting me.” He had taken the precaution of telephoning Harmon from Falcon City. He had no wish to be evicted from anybody’s marble–front doorstep, and knew that the magic word that would gain him entry was Bonnie Harmon. Beau had jumped like a shot man, he could sense it over the phone––his gasp and the long silence. He asked no questions, just told him to get there that afternoon at two.

“Please come in, sir.” The butler looked at him as though wishing he had a coat or hat, or at least a scarf he might relieve him of, the way no doubt he used to in the ancestral castles he had worked in in England. Al was glad he had at least put on a clean T–shirt.

Inside it was like a refrigerator and Al could almost feel his sweat glands closing up in protest. Another couple of degrees and you could have hung meat in here.

“Wait here, sir, I’ll tell Mr. Harmon you are here.”

The butler disappeared down the polished marble hall and Al took a look around. An enormous crystal chandelier burned brightly over his head, though it was still only early afternoon, with enough wattage, he felt sure, to light most of Falcon City. A double staircase, carpeted in several acres of lavender triple–velvet carpeting, anchored on each riser by a gilded rod with gold swan finials, ascended to lofty heights, with a glimpse of yet another large hallway at the top. Several thick double doors at least twelve feet in height led into sumptuously furnished rooms done out in shades of rose and lavender, or peach and green, and one immediately opposite was in pure startling white. All were furnished with Louis–the–something and plenty of gold trim.

He whistled, trying to assess what this whole thing might have cost. More than a man could make on a couple of car dealerships, he was sure of that. Either Boss Harmon had inherited family money and left that to his son, or else Beau had married it. His bet was on the latter.

“And
who
are
you
?”

Al lifted his head and met the eyes of a tall, slender brunette standing near the top of the curving staircase. Her dress matched almost perfectly the lavender of the carpet and he had no doubt who had the upper hand in decorating the place. Mrs. Harmon’s taste was stamped on her person and on her home.