Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

I said, “Sounds like you knew the family pretty well.”

“Just from a business perspective. Arlette was British. She grew up with horses, learned to use the Western saddle, really got into our way of life. She got two beauties from me and boarded them with me. Sometimes she’d ride with Junior or the other one—forget his name. She wasn’t the boys’ real mother, you know. He was a widow when they met but she raised those kids as if they were hers. The baby was hers. That one didn’t ride, rarely came to the stables. When she did, she sat in the office and drew pictures.”

“The boys and Tony rode.”

“More the boys, once in a while him. When Arlette brought the kids, she’d ride Butter, a lovely pinto, and Junior would ride Bramble, the other one I sold her, a black beauty. The younger boy—Bill, that’s what it was—would take a rental. When it was just two of them, both their mounts got ridden. The time he almost got thrown, he showed up late and Junior was already on Bramble.”

Her eyes flashed. “Not only did he kick too hard, he’d dig his heels into their flanks and grind.” Scowling, she twisted a fist to demonstrate. “He had these fancy cowboy boots with big heels he bought in Beverly Hills of all places. Rodeo Drive—did you know they named it that because in the old days you could ride horses up and down? Now it’s traffic and tourists.”

Another snort. “World’s going this way fast.” She aimed a fist downward and let it plummet.

Milo said, “The day Arlette died—”

“She was riding Bramble because I thought Butter had a touch of white line disease. Turned out it was just some superficial gunk, but I needed the vet to see her. Either way, it made no sense, her being thrown. Both horses were gentle and Arlette knew how to ride.”

I said, “Could Bramble have gotten spooked by a forest animal?”

“Could the sky fall? Anything’s possible, there’s cah-yotes out there, high-strung deer, even a bear or a puma once in a blue. But if it was a puma, believe me, it would’ve taken advantage, they wouldn’t have found Arlette intact. And Bramble wouldn’t be standing a few yards away whimpering. Besides, they were followed.”

Milo and I sat forward.

Winifred Gaines’s smile was smug—an oracle entrusted with a sacred truth. “You didn’t know, huh?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Figures,” she said. “I told those clowns, they couldn’t care less.”

“Tell us,” said Milo.

The smile turned wicked. “Guess I will if you behave yourselves—here’s our dinner.”

When Milo’s anxious and is presented with food, he either gorges or abstains. This time he just watched in admiration as Winifred Gaines began a frontal assault on her food.

Four thirty was early. I had no appetite, either.

Two chew-and-swallows, a breather, one more mouthful, then: “What’s your problem? Can’t handle fish before dark?”

He picked up his fork and knife, excised a tiny piece of shrimp.

“Hmph. What about you, Slim?”

I ingested a french fry.

She shook her head. Loss of faith in humanity.

A minute or so later, she put down her utensils and grinned. “Keeping you in suspense? Yeah, I’m a coldhearted biddy. Learned about delay of gratification from being married.”

I said, “Your delay or your husband’s?”

She glowered at me, then her lips worked as she fought laughter. Finally, losing the battle, she let out a belch of guffaw. Her chest heaved. A pearl snap came loose. “Slim’s a comedian. Well, I’m taking the Fifth on that.”

She swigged Diet Coke and sat back.

“Okay, I won’t torture you anymore. Strictly speaking, Arlette wasn’t followed. But someone rode into the forest soon after her.”

Milo said, “How soon?”

“A few minutes—three, four, five. I didn’t think much of it until I heard what happened to her.”

Milo said, “Who’d you see?”

“Can’t swear to it but my impression was a woman, from the size and the way she moved in the saddle. Women have wider pelvises, sometimes they shift around a bit until they get a firm grip. That’s what this one was doing.”

I said, “Maybe someone without much experience?”

“You and your maybes. Yeah, could be that, but even experienced females sometimes jiggle around. My daughter was a dressage champ and when she’d first get on, she’d be this and that and back to this before she settled down.”

Milo said, “What did this person look like?”

“No idea, it was far away, a hundred yards give or take. Maybe it was like you said, Slim. A rookie rider, female or some small guy. All I can tell you is the horse was brown and not one of mine. There were two other rental ranches near me, one north, one south. Clip joints, anyone could waltz in and pay for an hour ride. Their animals were old and tired, more chance dropping on the trail than going wild and throwing anyone. I told the rangers all this. They looked at me like I was nuts.”

“Are either of the other ranches still in business?” said Milo.

“Nah, it’s all strip malls and apartments. You obviously haven’t taken the time to look.”

“You’re our first stop, ma’am.”

“Am I supposed to be flattered?” Her fist did another swan dive. “Strip malls.”

I said, “Did you see the person who followed Arlette emerge from the forest?”

“Nope,” she said. “But I wouldn’t have, by then a ranger had found the body, it was a hubbub, all sorts of official vehicles. So I was pretty distracted.”

Milo said, “So someone could have come out without being noticed.”

“Absolutely,” said Winifred Gaines, “and there are also other trails that would lead you north or south of where Arlette started.”

Milo pulled out his pad. “Just to be thorough, what were the names of the other ranches?”

“Clip Joint One was Open Trails, Clip Joint Two was River Ridge, which made no sense ’cause there’s no river anywhere nearby.”

“Do you happen to recall who ran them?”

She put down her fork. “Open Trails were some Armenians from Glendale, River Ridge was this woman from Tujunga, real scatterbrain, had no clue. Neither of them lasted—maybe a year after Arlette died. That’s when the Armenians started selling off land and the whole development thing started. Now you answer my question: Why so gung ho after all this time?”

“Just what I told you, ma’am. We’re looking into a thirty—”

“Six-year-old murder. You’re thinking he did it to Arlette and then to someone else?”

“I can’t really get into—”

“Ha. Your eyes just got shifty, there’s my answer. Well, makes sense. Do you have any idea what he got up to after Arlette died?”

“We’ve been told he had women living with him at his house.”

“Bimbos coming in and out,” said Winifred Gaines. “Like he was that Playboy character…Hefner. It was common knowledge. Not a wholesome environment for the kids, especially the little one. He even changed the way he looked.”

“How so?”

“Before then he was this engineer-businessman type. Suits, ties, little Walter Pidgeon mustache.” She wiggled a finger under her nose. “Coke-bottle eyeglasses, the whole Mr. Wizard thing. Next time I saw him—we ran into each other at Huntington Gardens—he was with the little girl, had a total switcheroo.”

Another sub-nose wiggle was followed by a four-finger fan under her chin. “Now he had one of those goatee beards. Dyed it black, as believable as a campaign promise. And he was wearing those bell -bottoms. And one of those shirts. ”

She stuck out her tongue, retrieved her fork, ate four shrimp .