Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

The small man pointed to a great room on the left, said, “Make yourselves comfortable,” and left.

Milo muttered, “Freaky-happy.”

—

No rental furniture, here. The mammoth space was set up with more period deco: velvet-and-rosewood sling chairs, macassar occasional tables, geometrically patterned couches, plus the mirrored pieces from the forties decorators call Hollywood Regency.

I knew that because a house I’d visited while working a custody evaluation last year had been furnished with tons of the stuff, the father, a manic, spike-haired film producer, interrupting a tirade against his actress soon-to-be ex to educate me about his exquisite taste. Then back on track, ranting. (“She’s got no clue about synchrony or glamour. I like the way the Brits spell it, with a u. ”)

That prince had bought everything as a package at the behest of his “noted designer, she’s been in Architectural Digest twice.” These pieces looked original to the Des Barres mansion.

For all the difference in scale, another Spanish with the same layout as Ellie Barker’s rental, the entry leading to a staircase. These steps were padded by a Persian runner moored by brass rods and railed in sinuous, hand-carved ebony.

Scaled for an embassy, some notable making a dramatic entrance.

The small man returned with two tall glasses. Ice water, lime slices floating on top. A bow and he was gone.

It took a while before Valerie Des Barres entered the house, flushed and mouth-breathing in time with the hound’s panting. The dog strained at the leash. The man in the white shirt materialized and took it.

“Thanks, Sabino. One second, guys, let me throw some water on my face.”

She scooted across the onyx.

I said, “Nice place.”

Milo said, “If you like cozy.”

The great room was fifty by thirty with a double-height vaulted ceiling. Crossbeams were painted with floral loops of pale blue and pink. Quarter-sawn oak floors had been foot-polished to a patina you couldn’t fake. The fireplace was large enough for Milo to step into.

California impressionist paintings in period frames adorned the walls; hillsides vibrant with poppies and lupine, oak groves, rocky coasts, harbor scenes of burly fishermen hauling in catch.

Mr. Exquisite Taste had peppered his place with unframed canvases of “cutting-edge thought-through-woke conceptual imagery,” which translated to rectangles in various tones of sludge.

We’d finished our water when Val Des Barres reappeared, drinking from a can of Diet Coke. “I figured water was safe but if you want one of these?”

Milo said, “We’re fine, thanks.”

“Thank you for taking the time . I would’ve come to the meeting but I had to be out of town.”

Milo said, “Actually, ma’am, we’re not here about neighborhood watch.”

“Oh? Please don’t tell me something even more serious has happened. The burglaries were scary enough.”

Milo crossed his legs. “We’re here about a homicide that took place thirty-six years ago.”

Val Des Barres’s blue eyes popped. “Thirty-six? That’s kind of weird…but I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“What is, ma’am?”

“A few weeks ago I heard about a thirty-six-year-old murder. A person I met at a charity benefit in San Francisco. She’d lost her mom when she was a child and did mention that it happened on Mulholland. That sure caught my ear, so we started chatting.” She frowned. “You can’t be talking about the same person?”

“Ellie Barker,” said Milo.

“Ellie. I never got her last name. Oh, my, it is her.” Her face puckered like that of a kid eyeing a too-pricey toy in a window. “It was a brief conversation. Another person at her table said she had influence and could help, so we exchanged seats. Unbelievable.”

She put down her can. “I still don’t get why you’re here. ”

Milo sighed.

Val Des Barres said, “I don’t like the sound of that. ”

“Ma’am, we’ve received information that Ellie Barker’s mother may have lived here.”

Val Des Barres rose an inch off her seat, buttocks suspended briefly in midair before lowering. “Here? What makes you say that?”

“Sorry, I can’t get into details.” He gave an uneasy smile and braced himself for outrage: hands on knees, neck taut. One of those tough-part-of-the-job days.

Val Des Barres said, “Huh. Was she an attractive woman?”

“Reasonably.”

“I suppose she could’ve been one of them.”

“One of who?”

“Father’s collection,” she said. “At least that’s how I thought of it. I collected leaves, rocks, and flowers, Dad had pretty women. My brothers had another word for it: harem. It really bothered them. It began shortly after my mother died. The changes in Father. But he continued to be a good dad to me, so I wanted him to be happy.”

Milo said, “May I ask when your mom passed?”

“I’m almost forty-seven and I was ten, so thirty-seven years ago. It wasn’t a sudden thing, just kind of…evolved.”

Milo looked at me. I said, “How so?”

“For the first year or so, Father didn’t date. Or go out much at all. I’d hear him crying in his bedroom, he lost weight. Eventually he started.”

“Going out.”

“And dating,” she said. “He’d bring some of them home. Younger women, pretty, he liked blondes. Mother had been a blonde. In the beginning they’d just spend some time here with him—have a drink or a snack. Then I guess he got more comfortable and you’d see them at breakfast. Then it began to stretch. Weeks at a time. More than one woman.”

I said, “Big change for you.”

“It would have to be, I suppose. But honestly, I don’t remember it bothering me. Maybe I’m in denial, but what I recall is feeling relieved because Father was happier. My brothers didn’t like it, that’s for sure. But they were away—Bill was in prep school, Tony was in college. Dad doted on me, and some of them—his women—were lovely to me.”

“Some.”

“Different personalities,” she said. “Some more child-oriented than others, I suppose. None of them were mean to me. Father wouldn’t have tolerated that.”

“You adapted.”

“I honestly don’t recall it as a huge adjustment. The big trauma was not having Mother. I suppose having Father functional made that easier.”

Milo said, “The woman in question was named Dorothy Swoboda.”

“None of their names have stuck with me, Lieutenant. I didn’t get up close and personal with them.” She managed a smile. “I guess I regarded them as recreational for Father. Like golf clubs or sports cars—I know that sounds terrible but my focus was on getting through life with one parent.”

I said, “Of course.”

Milo showed her the snapshot in the forest.

Val Des Barres studied it and shook her heard. “Sorry, can’t say I remember her. But I don’t not remember her, either. It’s certainly possible. She’s the type Dad went for.”

“How so?”

“Young, pretty—she’s not blond but that could be fixed pretty easily…I always thought the main thing was finding women unlike Mother. She was British, trained as a physician though she never practiced. Beautiful but she played herself down. Who’s the man? Ellie’s father?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He’s considerably older than her, same thing as with Father. I suppose it’s trying to deny mortality.”

She returned the photo. “Sorry I can’t be more helpful. It really is bizarre that Ellie and I happened to find ourselves at the same table. On the other hand, the spiritual world can be like that and I do like to think of myself as spiritual. Not in a crazy way. But haven’t you seen it in the course of your work? Karma, fate, whatever you want to call it? Sometimes the planets just align.”