Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

Milo said, “The Azalea.”

She gave him a sharp look. “You know about it?”

He reached into a side pocket and produced the photo of Des Barres and the three blondes.

Vicki Quandt’s manicured hand flew to her mouth. “Omigod—so you already knew about me. ”

“No, ma’am. We knew about these three faces but not much about them.” Smooth lie; emotional fly-casting: bob the lure while remaining out of view. “Now that we’ve met you, we know a bit more.”

“Really? I’ve changed.”

I said, “Not that much.”

Off came the shades. Black eyes bored into mine. “Are you kissing up?”

“Nope, just telling the truth.”

“Well,” she said, flipping her hair, “I do try to be fit.” She studied the photo. “Unbelievable. Where did you get this?”

“An old book,” said Milo. “Out of print and no other copies that we’ve spotted.”

“An old book…never knew you guys worked that hard. So you know that’s Benicia.”

“We also know the man is Anton Des Barres.”

“Ah, Tony,” she said. “Interesting piece of work.”

More scrutiny of the image. “So how did I end up there after I turned Sterling—the photographer—down? Simple. Desperation. I was down and out, hadn’t received a check in a while, and then I got hit with a disgusting flu that lasted three weeks and cost me both my jobs. So I called him and said I’d be willing to give it a try. He said he was going himself in a couple of days, would be happy to take me. He picked me up in this massive copper-colored Lincoln Continental—it had portholes, like a ship—and we glided to Beverly Hills. I was still feeling punk but did my darndest to look my best. Red dress I’d bought on sale, pink stilettos, my hair was up. I’m sure I looked horrid but Sterling told me I was ravishing. Then a few blocks from the place he told me he’d escort me in but he’d be going upstairs because that was a men’s-only section. He looked embarrassed. Poor guy, he couldn’t bring himself to say it.”

I said, “He’d go upstairs and you’d be on your own.”

“He didn’t phrase it that way, he just told me to value myself and act accordingly. That night I met a lovely brain surgeon who’d just lost his wife to cancer and wanted to hold hands. Free dinner, free drinks, and when I got home—Sterling came downstairs and we left together—there were three hundred-dollar bills in my purse that I’d never spotted going in there.”

Off went the glasses, again. “If that sounds like prostitution, it wasn’t. He talked, I listened, he felt young and desirable again, and I guess with his surgeon’s skills he was able to slip me those bills.”

She laughed. “Thank God he wasn’t an amateur pickpocket. Anyway, I went home to my pathetic little room feeling healthier and wealthier than I ever felt before. So the next week, when Sterling called, I said sure. And that’s when I met Tony.”

She poked the black dress. “Sterling bought this for me, said you can’t go wrong with an LBD. He also gave me a wig. I was blond but apparently not blond enough and he wanted a certain style.”

I said, “His preference or Tony’s?”

“Obviously Tony’s, because look at the three of us. It’s basically a uniform.”

“Did Sterling furnish their wigs?”

“I have no idea. They already knew Tony, were living in his house. Benicia called it a palace. Said he was a really nice guy, put girls up in luxury and didn’t ask anything in return.”

Third inspection of the photo. “Wow, this is a blast from the past. Do you know who the other girl is?”

“Dorothy Swoboda,” said Milo. “She’s who we’re looking into.”

“I knew her as Dot. Grumpy Dot…so why the interest in Benicia?”

“Cold case, we look for any connecting threads.”

“You got the photo and went online and found her,” said Victoria Quandt.

Not asking the obvious question: Is someone looking for me? But maybe not obvious; Bella Owen hadn’t posted about a long-lost cousin, she’d responded to Milo’s general description.

No reason to mention Owen. Time for focus.

He said, “That’s exactly what happened, Vicki, and we got a response from a distant relative of hers. But they don’t know much of anything. So when you got in touch, it was a big deal. Again, thanks.”

Vicki Quandt recrossed her legs without the rest of her budging. “More connecting threads?”

Milo nodded.

“So you’re assuming Dot was the murder victim.”

“That was the official conclusion.”

“Yes, it was,” said Quandt. Shapely, glossed lips formed the knowing smile of an older, more sophisticated sibling. Oh, you stupid kids.

Milo said, “You had your doubts?”

“I got the heck out of that place two days after the car blew up. You do know about the car.”

“Tony Des Barres’s Cadillac.”

“Big land yacht,” she said. “With Dot inside. Allegedly, as you guys say on TV.” She focused on Swoboda’s face, frowned, returned the photo.

I said, “You’ve always had your doubts.”

Victoria Quandt looked up at tree branches. Patches of sky glinted between the boughs like aquamarines. Her body tensed. She did some slow breathing but didn’t look more relaxed.

“Okay, I’ll tell you what I think if you swear to keep me out of it. If you come back and bug me, I’ll shut you out completely.”

“Fair enough,” said Milo.

“Doesn’t matter if it is or it isn’t, that’s the deal. You need to understand: I have an amazing life. Married to the same wonderful man for thirty-three years—and yes, I met him at The Azalea. Two kids, both married, one’s a lawyer, the other’s an entrepreneur. Two amazing grandkids, I want for nothing. So I probably shouldn’t even have agreed to meet you. Why upset the apple cart?”

Milo and I stayed silent.

She tried more breathing. Shook her head. “I have more than doubts about the official version. I have logic. Because Dot had been mad at Benicia for weeks before it happened, don’t ask me why, I have no idea. They seemed to be an item—not sexually—more like a package deal, showed up together, hung out together. But not as equal partners, Dot called the shots and Benicia obeyed like a slave. It wasn’t hard to dominate Benni—that’s what we called her. She was meek, submissive, and, trust me, no genius. Curvy, cute as a button, peaches-and-cream complexion, little Kewpie doll voice but dull as they come and not an inch of spine to her. Dot took advantage of it, boy did she. Basically she used Benicia as a handmaiden, and Benicia never complained, not a peep.”

I said, “Did using her include anything sexual?”

“Not that I saw or heard,” said Victoria Quandt.

“I was thinking between Benni and Des Barres.”

“A threesome? Ha.” Several beats. “Okay, you probably won’t believe what I’m going to tell you but it’s true. Nothing sexual went on in that place. Nothing. That was what was so weird about it. Here’s Tony, richer than God, he’s got an amazing place, tons of great-looking girls parading around in bikinis and skimpies and no one got touched. We all talked about it, traded notes, same story. All the poor guy wanted was to sit around and listen to classical music, read, work on his business books or whatever, while one of us kept him company and got him snacks and fixed him cocktails. Lots of cocktails, he was a Sazerac guy. It was this complicated deal—soaking sugar cubes with a special bitters and crushing it, three ounces of rye, then absinthe—which was illegal back then—rubbed into the glass and you’d pour it out. He could put away three, four, even five of those and by the end of a session, he’d be out. Maybe that’s why he lost interest in doing the deed, too much alcohol. Whatever the reason, that’s the way it was.”