Damsels in Distress (27 page)

Unless someone had a grudge.

The only thing I could come up with was Salvador’s casual mention of his books. They had to be the source of his income, unless his paintings were wildly popular. It was hard to believe that what had once graced album covers for ostentatiously primitive rock bands was now a hot item in Manhattan galleries. If he had written under a pseudonym, and I assumed he had since I’d been unable to find his name on the computer, he could have written most anything. Had he uncovered proof of a terrorists’ cell in Farberville? A plot to unleash a virus or take hostages at the next city board meeting? He’d mentioned that his readers were young, and therefore unlikely to be concerned about anything that happened out of the range of their cell phones. Caron and Inez could not name the prime minister of Canada; Rhonda Maguire could not find it on a map.

The answer was likely to be at his house, stuffed in a desk drawer or neatly filed in a cabinet. Peter would not find this minor puzzle worthy of his attention. I had nothing else to do. I went back inside, put my cup in the sink, and went downstairs to the garage. After a quick look to make sure Edward was not lurking beneath the window of the hatchback, I drove to Salvador’s house.

Rain arrived at the same time I did. I parked in the carport, then skittered along the porch and tried the door. Unlike Edward, I had no need of a gadget from a magic shop. Only when I stepped inside did I think about Serengeti. If she was living in the house, she might not even know that Salvador was dead. Or she might not be taking the news well.

I switched on a light and peered around the room. She was not blending into the black upholstery. I continued into the dining room and the kitchen. The only indication of inhabitancy was a glass in the sink. I turned around and went down the hallway, reminding myself that I was not a prowler. It may have been true that I had no legitimate excuse to be in the house, but neither did anyone else. The police investigators had most likely already been there and gone, although it was curious that they hadn’t locked the door. I found a bathroom, a dimly lit spare bedroom, and a den with a large television and a pathetically plebeian recliner. A remote control was within reach on an end table. I wondered if Salvador had been a closet soap opera fan. Luanne was, although it had taken me a while to figure out why she closed her store at precisely the same hour every weekday afternoon. We all have secret vices. Mine, of course, shall remain so. Luanne had paid for my silence with a nice bottle of scotch.

There were more bedrooms on the second floor, none of them looking as if anyone had ever slept in them. On the other side of the hall was the master bedroom, outfitted with a black satin bedspread on a king-sized bed, a dresser cluttered with typical oddments, and a master bath with a shower, Jacuzzi, mannish toys, and enough ferns to crowd a greenhouse. The paintings hung on the walls were graphic, to put it politely. The exuberant exaltation of anatomy made me queasy.

His studio took up the rest of the second floor. It contained the standard easels, a table with tubes of paint and icky palettes, and canvases propped against the wall. Salvador was prolific, if not noticeably talented. Rain beating on the skylights accentuated my uneasiness as I explored. At one end of the room was a large desk, and next to it a drawing table of the sort used by architects. Pencils, pens, and markers stuck out of a coffee mug. The filing cabinet was locked, as were the desk drawers. The waste basket was empty. He’d said that he had recently finished a project, but any evidence of it was locked in a drawer or tossed out with the trash.

I was sadly lacking in crowbars, or even a nail file. Salvador had been a sloppy and careless painter, but a meticulously organized writer. I could almost see the contracts tucked away in files in the cabinet, each labeled and containing the specifics of dates and deals, agents and editors, foreign sales, clipped reviews, maybe movie rights. I sized up the computer. No doubt a fourteen-year-old boy could switch it on, break the password, and pull up the pertinent files, but I was barely able to order books online—and I never did so with any confidence (having once received a carton of books written in Finnish).

The key to the filing cabinet was the level of my expertise. Although it was probably in Salvador’s pocket, I decided to prowl0 before I crept away in defeat. I opened the drawers of the drafting table. They contained erasers, colored pencils, calligraphy pens, a pad of tracing paper, a stained note reminding him to buy coffee and olives, a dozen photographs of Serengeti in a leather bikini with shiny metallic studs, a catalog from a mail-order medieval outfitter, utility knives, and a pencil sharpener. Only someone more devious than I could arrange them into a clue.

I crammed everything back in the drawer. After a futile tug at the top drawer of the filing cabinet, I went back downstairs. As I came into the living room, lightning flashed. The thunder that followed seconds later rattled the house. I was startled, but not unduly alarmed. Summer storms are blessedly short. The rain was apt to abate within ten minutes, at which time I would give up and go home. The whole house was gloomy, but I would hardly find myself blundering about in the dark.

What light there was reflected on the polished surface of the dining room table. Rain poured on the deck, the drops bouncing like silver pellets. I stared, trying to think how best to utilize the next few minutes. If Salvador was a writer (and I had to assume he was), then surely he would have copies of his masterpieces somewhere in the house. He was secretive, however, so they would not be displayed on the mantel or arranged on the shelves of a bookcase in the living room. I’d looked in all the rooms in the main area of the house. Still to be explored was the room above the garage that I’d noticed earlier. I continued through the kitchen and opened a door. It proved to lead to a utility room, I brilliantly deduced as I saw a washer, dryer, and metal shelves holding laundry and cleaning supplies. I felt a flicker of hope when I spotted a garbage can, but instead of letters and envelopes, it contained cans, wine bottles, an empty cereal box, and some scraps of food that were decidedly inedible. Next to it was a door that led to the carport.

Behind me was a staircase. Restraining myself from chortling, I went upstairs to a large, dim room. Old deck chairs with worn pads were in a corner. A rather nice walnut desk was piled high with travel and gourmet magazines; its drawers were empty. Several battered suitcases were coated with dust. I knew I’d start sneezing if I disturbed them, but it appeared no one else had in a long while. A spider crawled along a rolled-up carpet that had no suspicious bulges worthy of investigation. In another corner were neat stacks of cardboard boxes. Although it was probable that they contained sweaters and coats, I opened the top one.

Apparently, Salvador had been unable to part with his boyhood treasures. The box was filled with comic books featuring muscle- bound heroes in tights and capes, scantily clad buxom heroines, and fiendish villains with peculiar disfigurements. In my childhood, I’d preferred Huey, Dewey, and Little Lulu. Maybe these were collector’s items now, I surmised, and I was riffling through a million dollars. I opened another box and found more of the same.

“Keep looking,” commanded a raspy voice behind me.

I stood up and looked over my shoulder at Benny. “You startled me.”

“Sorry,” he said. “For a minute, I thought you were a burglar. What are you doing here?”

A fair question, but hard to answer. “I should ask you the same thing, and since I was here first...”

“Just driving by, and saw your car. Well, I didn’t know it was your car, so I thought I’d better stop and check. I was expecting to find a next-of-kin sort of person.” He winked at me. “You’re not, are you?”

“No,” I said, since he wouldn’t believe some idiotic story about being a second cousin. A better one came to mind. “That’s why I’m here. Someone needs to be notified about Salvador’s death. The desk and filing cabinets are locked, so I came up here to see if I might find some old letters or a family photo album.” I dusted off my hands. “No luck, though. The only thing he seems to have saved were these boxes of comic books. I guess I’ll leave it to the police.”

Benny stayed in the doorway. “I don’t think he ever mentioned any family members. Now, of course, there’s Edward—if we believe his story. An incredible coincidence, don’t you think? The young starving artist finds his long-lost father, who just happens to be wealthy and without other heirs. Our jester will be juggling his inheritance all the way to the bank.”

I sat down on a suitcase. “I hadn’t thought about that,” I admitted. “Edward told me that Salvador had been stunned when he found out, but had agreed to acknowledge Edward as his son and help him with his career.”

“You believed that?” Benny laughed, his bushy beard rippling. “It’s not what I heard Friday night, once Salvador polished off a second bottle of wine. I can’t remember when I’ve seen him that drunk. I had to roll him upstairs to bed.”

“You knew about Edward’s claim?”

“Yeah, but I swore that I’d keep my mouth shut. The bottom line is that it wasn’t any of my damn business. For all I know, there could be paunchy, red-haired babies all over the world. Maybe I’m just lucky none of them has shown up on my front porch.”

“Oh,” I said slowly. “So is that why you pretended to be surprised at the banquet?”

Benny ignored my question. “Salvador was a tightfisted egotist. The only reason he’d brake for a kitten was to avoid getting blood on his precious car. And he lied, either to cover his back or just for malicious pleasure. He could charm the panties off every woman he met. Are you sure you didn’t come here to make sure yours aren’t displayed in his trophy case?”

My jaw quivered with outrage. After a moment to compose myself, I uncurled my fingers and said, “Please leave now.”

“As milady wishes,” he said, then turned around and went downstairs. Seconds later the door to the carport opened and closed.

I stayed seated while I cooled down to a low simmer. At least I’d had the sense not to attack him with a rolled copy of
The Amazing Amazon Warriors
. Despite myself, I mentally replayed the ridiculous encounter. Benny’s first words were peculiar, I decided. Rather than ask the more obvious question of what I was doing, he’d advised me to keep looking. Looking for what? A will made in favor of the publishers of
Dart Boy
and
Master G angsters ?

I stood up and opened another box. More comic books of the same ilk, none of them carefully wrapped in plastic covers to protect them. They’d been read, ripped, dog-eared, and used as coasters. Boyhood souvenirs. A sneeze exploded from my aristocratic nose, loud enough to alarm any residential rodents. A second caught me before I could wipe my eyes. I was clearly stirring up thirty years of dust and mold.

I hurried downstairs before another sneeze could send my head flying across the room. A few years ago my delicate sensibilities had led me to the identity of a murderer. This time they were more likely to send me to the emergency room. I stopped in the kitchen to blot my watery eyes and damp nose with a paper towel. If Salvador’s treasure trove was in that room, the police would have to deal with it.

I dropped the towel in the garbage can. Concluding I’d wasted my time, I went into the living room to turn off the light before I left. Serengeti was seated on the black sofa. I wasn’t overwhelmed with shock.

“Do you know about Salvador?” I asked her.

“Yes.”

“Then why are you here?”

She turned her face toward the window. “I don’t like it when people ask me that.”

I was getting very tired of her affectation. “I can assure you that you’ll like it even less when the police ask you that. You’ll be in a cramped interrogation room with bright lights. The table will be grimy and the chair will be hard. The officers won’t simply accept your answer and send you back to wherever it is you go. You may end up in a cell. If you’re lucky, you’ll have it to yourself, but sometimes they have to double up. The food’s awful and there’s no wine list.”

“Why do you care?” she whispered.

I thought about it, then said, “I don’t care. The detectives do, though. I gave them a very detailed statement this morning, and your name came up several times. I even told them that Salvador thought you might be living here. Are you?”

“I am living when I am here. Do the police know who killed him?”

“The detectives don’t keep me informed, Serengeti. They may have arrested someone by now, or they may be looking at suspects. You’re on the list. “

“Why would I kill him?”

“I really don’t know.” I went over to the switch and turned off the light. The storm had passed, but the gray sky lingered. I was still prickly from Benny’s lewd remark, and the only remedy was a drink on my balcony, followed by a phone call to Luanne to grouse about pretty much every last soul I’d run into since dawn. “Good luck,” I said to the motionless figure on the sofa. “The police have a description of you, so unless you take off that ridiculous makeup they’ll find you sooner or later.”

“Please don’t leave.”

I stopped, exasperated. “I don’t want to participate in your silly game. You’re on drugs, deeply neurotic, or pretending to be both. If you want sympathy, hunt up your goth buddies and complain about the indignities forced upon you by our evil society. I’m going home.”

“I’ll do better,” she said with the first hint of emotion I’d heard. “We could open a bottle of wine.”

“And you’ll talk?”

“I don’t like it when-” She caught my glare. “Yes.”

Chapter Thirteen

I
s there any chance that you’ll take off that ghastly makeup?” I said to Serengeti as we sat down at the dining room table.

She busied herself with a corkscrew. “I prefer not to. I hope chablis is okay. How about something to eat?”

“This is not a social call. I feel as if I’m talking to something that goes bump in the night. The police will insist, so you might as well get it over with now.” I watched her fill my glass. “I assumed you were going to be candid with me.”