Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

One of the few buildings that’s not white is painted brick and cream and contains a large winery with a tasting room at the front and restaurant at the back consistently rated the best in the county. I’d discovered it years ago, interviewing a witness in a previous case, had turned Milo and Rick on to it because they’re always looking for cuisine. They’d become fans, stopping on the way to rare weekends in Santa Barbara for Cabernet and prime rib.

Any eatery Milo frequents benefits from his habitual overtipping. It’s a cop thing he takes even further. The result is usually a hero’s welcome and today was no exception.

We arrived eighteen minutes before the appointment with Nancy Strattine, were immediately seated at a private corner table and comped with a charcuterie plate generous enough to nourish all three bears.

Milo said, “Aw, not necessary.”

The waiter said, “Enjoy.”

Milo said, “Sage advice,” and reached for his fork.

—

Several bison sausages, strips of venison jerky, and chunks of veal pâté later, he took a breather, wiped his forehead, swigged ice water, and looked around. Seconds after he’d returned to the food, I noticed a blond woman enter, confer with the host, and head our way.

“Here she is, Big Guy. On the dot.”

He wiped his face hurriedly, stood to greet her.

“Ms. Strattine. Thanks for coming.”

“Nancy’s fine.”

Fine came out “Fahn.”

He gave her the same name-only intro for me that he’d offered Bella Owen. She smiled, said, “Hi, Alex,” and sat.

Nancy Strattine was five-three and trim, wearing full makeup that included exuberant false eyelashes and bright-red lipstick. The blond hair was an ash-colored, meringue-like cloud. Her eyes were dark, her chin firm and pointy. A slightly oversized nose aimed for the sky.

She carried a navy Gucci bag, wore yellow spike-heeled shoes and an olive-green pantsuit. The suit’s neckline framed a vee of freckled chest and an inch of cleavage. On her left lapel was a gold brooch shaped like a rose. Three-inch gold hoop earrings, a fire-opal pendant on a chunky gold chain, a two-carat diamond ring paired with a wedding band crusted with pavé diamonds, and an Apple Watch with an orange leather band completed the ensemble.

She said, “Never get this far south. What’s good?”

Milo said, “Everything, ma’am,” and nudged the charcuterie toward her.

She inspected the plate, tweezed jerky between manicured fingers, and nibbled. “Yums.”

“Glad you like it, ma’am.”

“Ma’am? That sounds like where I’m from.”

“No geographic boundaries when it comes to manners. Ma’am.”

Nancy Strattine let out a throaty laugh. Then her face changed, as if suddenly warned to avoid merriment. “I shouldn’t be frivolous, it’s a sad situation with Benicia. Either way.”

The waiter reappeared. Milo and I had turned down wine but he asked Nancy Strattine if she wanted some.

She looked at us. “Against your rules?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well…not against mine. I’ll have a glass of Pinot.”

“Coming up.”

“Any questions or are you folks ready?”

Nancy Strattine speed-scanned the menu. “I am. Chicken sandwich.”

Milo ordered the deluxe burger and I asked for a seven-ounce fillet.

The waiter said, “No worries,” and left.

Nancy Strattine said, “Why do they say that? What would I be worried about unless he knows something I don’t.”

I said, “Generational anxiety.”

“Ha—and he didn’t say ma’am. In Texas even the kids are polite. So. When you emailed me I got charged up and called the only member of my family who was alive back when Benni—that’s what we called her, two n ’s, one i —when Benni disappeared. That’s my uncle Nat, he’s retired police in Austin. He was the baby, born after Benni and my mom. He said he didn’t have anything but then he found what I’m going to show you and sent it. She’s still a kid and her figure was different, but who knows, maybe you can draw a conclusion.”

Out of the blue bag came an Apple 10 XR in a pink snakeskin case. An image already loaded.

Outdoor shot, clumped greenery backing a chubby girl sixteen to eighteen, wearing a yellow print dress with puffed sleeves.

None of the open glee of the smooth-faced blonde in the Azalea shot. This subject was barely able to meet the camera head-on. Long brown hair hung lank. Too-short bangs did nothing for a full face that was lightly spotted with acne.

Milo loaded the Azalea shot with everyone but the fresh-faced blonde blocked out and we did a side-by-side comparison.

Puberty, plastic surgery, and long-term aging can alter appearances radically but a handful of unmanipulated years, particularly during youth, don’t have much impact on facial proportions.

He looked at me. I nodded.

He said, “Unless Benni had a twin, it’s a match.” He offered Strattine the comparison.

She said, “My oh my…so Benni did end up in L.A. That’s what people said. But she sure looks different…but yes, it’s her.”

“Which people?”

“Let me rephrase. That’s what my mom said. She used Benni as a bad example whenever she wanted me to toe the line. Her claim was Benni had slipped out through a bedroom window late at night and it was obvious where she went because she’d talked about being a Hollywood movie star. Which Mama said was stupid because Benni never acted a whit in school. Didn’t do much of anything in school.”

I said, “Not a student.”

“Not according to Mama,” said Strattine. “Stay in school, Nancy, don’t drop out like stupid Benni. Use your time wisely, Nancy, don’t sit around letting your rear get as wide a barn door like fat Benni. Get a respectable job, not like lazy Benni who ended up spreading manure at one of the rose growers. Watch your figure—I know, brutal. I suppose that’s why I went searching for what happened to Benni. Kind of like saving a poor soul.”

“She and Benni were first cousins?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any reason for the animosity?”

“My theory,” said Strattine, “is it was really between their mothers. Mawmaw—my grandma—was religious, a total puritan. Benni’s mom, Great-Aunt Sadie, was anything but. But again, that’s just what I’ve been told. I asked Uncle Nat about it and he had no idea, said he’d never heard about the actress thing, either. The story his dad—Great-Uncle Nathaniel, Sr.—told him was totally different. Benni fell in with a criminal female and likely met a bad end because of it.”

I said, “Either way, Benni was the bad example.”

“Exactly.”

Milo said, “Did the criminal have a name?”

“Not that Nat knows. What Senior said was she was an ex-con, got released and hired to work with the roses. Busy season, the growers brought on all sorts of temporaries. I suppose Benni could’ve met her while spreading manure. But if she made it to L.A., Nat was probably wrong and it was Hollywood she was after. Can I see that photo again, please?”

Milo handed her his phone.

“She looks so pretty,” said Strattine. “She improved herself. All by herself.” Fist-pump.

An exuberant voice said, “Here we go, folks.” Three plates were set down silently.

Nancy Strattine tasted her sandwich. “Yums.” Then her wine. “Yums, again.” She put her glass down. “It’s sad to think of Benni out there with no family. I suppose after all this time there’s not much hope.”

“No matter how it turns out, you did the right thing, ma’am.”

“Thank you for saying that, Lieutenant. Mama would disagree.”

“Why’s that?”

“The road to hell’s paved with good intentions, Nancy. Deal in facts, Nancy, not far-fetched ideas.”