E is for Evidence (13 page)

“Did the two of them have words?”

“I don't know for sure. I know he gave notice and Woody talked him out of it. He'd just bid on a big government contract and he needed Hugh. I guess Hugh said he'd stay until word came through whether Woody got the bid or not. Two days later, I got home from work, opened the garage door, and there he was. It looked like he fell asleep in the car, but his skin was cherry red. I never will forget that.”

“There's no way it could have been an accident?”

She leaned forward earnestly. “I said it once and I'll
say it again. Hugh wouldn't kill himself. He didn't have a reason and he wasn't depressed.”

“How do you know he wasn't holding something back?”

“I guess I don't, if you put it like that.”

“The notion of murder doesn't make any sense. Lance wasn't even in charge at that point, and he wouldn't kill an employee just because the guy wants to move on. That's ludicrous.”

Lyda shrugged, undismayed by my skepticism. “Maybe Lance worried Hugh would take the business with him when he went.”

“Well, aside from the fact he wasn't gone yet, it still seems extreme.”

She bristled slightly. “You asked for my opinion. I'm tellin' you what I think.”

“I can see you believe it, but it's going to take more than that to talk me into it. If Hugh was murdered, it could have been someone else, couldn't it?”

“Of course it could. I believe it was Lance, but I can't
swear
to it. I don't have any proof, anyhow. Sometimes I think it's not worth foolin' with. It's over and done, so what difference does it make?”

I shifted the subject. “Why'd you have him cremated so fast?”

She stared at me. “Are you thinking
I
had a hand in it?”

“I'm just asking the questions. What do I know?”

“He
asked
to be cremated. It wasn't even my idea. He'd been dead for two days. The coroner released the body and the funeral director suggested we go ahead with it, so I took his advice. You can talk to him yourself if you don't believe me,” she said. “Hugh was drugged. I'd bet money that's how they pulled it off. His lab work was stolen so nobody'd see the test results.”

“Maybe he was drunk,” I suggested. “He might have pulled into the garage and fallen asleep.”

She shook her head. “He didn't drink. He'd given that up.”

“Did he have a problem with alcohol?”

“Once upon a time, he did,” she said. “We
met
in a bar. Two in the afternoon, in the middle of the week. He wasn't even travelin'. He just liked to come watch the planes, he said. I should have suspected right then, but you know what it's like when you fall in love. You see what you want to see. It took me years to figure out how far gone he was. Finally I said I'd leave him if he didn't straighten up. He went into this program . . . not AA, but something similar. He got sobered up and that's how he stayed.”

“Is there a chance he'd gone back to drinking? It wouldn't be unheard of.”

“Not with him on Antabuse. He'da been sick as a pup.”

“You're sure he took the stuff?”

“I gave it to him myself. It was like a little game we played. Every morning with his orange juice. He held his hand out and I gave him his pill and watched him swallow it right down. He wanted me to see he didn't cheat. He swore, the day he quit drinking, he'd never go back to it.”

“How many people knew about the Antabuse?”

“I don't know. He never made a big deal of it. If people around him were drinking, he just said ‘No thanks.' ”

“Tell me what was happening the week he died.”

“Nothing. It seemed like an ordinary week to me. He talked to Woody. Two days later, he was dead. After the funeral, I packed up, put everything in a U-Haul, and hit the road for home. This is where I've been ever since.”

“And there was nothing among his things to suggest what was going on? No letter? A note?”

She shook her head. “I went through his desk the day he died, and I didn't see a thing.”

 

 

 

 

 

The flight home was uneventful. I'd spent an hour and a half with Lyda, and the rest of the night in the airport terminal with its red carpeting, high glass ceiling, real trees, and an actual bird that flew back and forth, chirping incessantly. It was sort of like camping out, only I was sitting upright and I didn't have any wienies to roast. I made notes of my conversation with Lyda, which I'd transcribe for the files when I got home. I was inclined to believe Hugh Case had been murdered, though I had no idea how, why, or by whom. I also tended to think his death was related to current events at Wood/Warren, though I couldn't imagine what the connection might be. Lyda had promised to get in touch if she remembered anything of note. All in all, it was not an unproductive trip. It had generated more questions than it answered,
but that was fine with me. As long as there are threads to unravel, I'm in business. The frustration starts when all the leads dry up and the roads turn out to be dead ends. With Hugh Case, I felt like I'd just found one of the corner pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I had no idea what the final picture would look like, but at least I had a place to start.

I boarded the plane at 4:30
A.M.
and arrived at LAX at 5:45. I had to wait for a 7:00
A.M.
shuttle to Santa Teresa, and by the time I dragged my sorry ass home, I was dead on my feet. I let myself into the apartment an hour later, checked for messages (none), pulled my boots off, and curled up in the folds of my quilt, fully dressed.

At approximately 9:02, there was a knock at my door. I staggered up out of sleep and shuffled to the door, dragging my quilt behind me like a bridal train. My mouth tasted foul and my hair was standing straight up, as spiky as a punker's, only not as clean. I peered through the fish-eye, too clever to be caught unawares by an early-morning thug. Standing on my doorstep was my second ex-husband, Daniel Wade.

“Shit,” I murmured. Briefly, I leaned my head against the door and then peeked again. All I could see in truncated form was his face in profile, blond hair curling around his head like an aura. Daniel Wade is quite possibly the most beautiful man I've
ever seen—a bad sign. Beautiful men are usually either gay or impossibly narcissistic. (Sorry for the generalization, folks, but it's the truth.) I like a good face or an interesting face or a face with character, but not this sculpted perfection of his . . . the straight, well-proportioned nose, high cheekbones, strong jawline, sturdy chin. His hair was sun-bleached, his eyes a remarkable shade of blue, offset by dark lashes. His teeth were straight and very white, his smile slightly crooked. Get the picture, troops?

I opened the door. “Yes?”

“Hi.”

“Hello.” I gave him a rude stare, hoping he'd disappear. He's tall and slim and he can eat anything without gaining weight. He stood there in faded jeans and a dark-red sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up. His skin had a golden sheen, tanned and windburned, so his cheeks glowed darkly. Just another boring California golden boy. The hair on his arms was bleached nearly white. His hands were tucked in his pockets, which was just as well. He's a jazz pianist with long, bony fingers. I fell in love with his hands first and then worked my way up.

“I've been in Florida.” Good voice, too . . . just in case his other virtues fail to excite. Reedy and low. He sings like an angel, plays six instruments.

“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 down-right 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.