Wendy Hornsby - The Color of Light

“Someone opens the door. Maybe he, or she, has heard a man’s voice inside. In the darkened room he sees a man’s white shirt, assumes it’s Chuck, aims for center mass and shoots.”

Jean-Paul thought that over before he nodded. “I can see that, yes. But who opened the door?”

“If this is my story to tell, it would be someone who intended to take out Chuck and made a terrible mistake when he shot her. I don’t know anyone who would want to hurt Mrs. B, but I can’t say that about him.”

“Khanh Duc?”

“He’s certainly on the top of my list,” I said. “The Bartolinis paid Quynh’s ransom through him, and then somehow Chuck infused himself into the situation. Did Chuck, always looking for a deal, offer Duc protection from a police investigation in exchange for a cut of the proceeds? If that’s the case, then when my parents brought the FBI aboard there wouldn’t be much Chuck could do to shield either of them, and was probably a liability. He would certainly hand over Duc to save his own scrawny butt. Maybe he asked for too much and Duc wanted him gone.”

“If that is what happened, then I would expect Duc to try again when he missed killing Riley the first time,” Jean-Paul said. “We learned last night what Duc is capable of.”

“Unless Chuck told Duc that everything would be exposed if anything happened to him. Duc certainly thought there was something in our house that he needed to get to. Was Dad supposed to have evidence of some sort squirreled away?”

“He did, if you recall. Isn’t that how you became involved?”

“True. Nothing that I found in Dad’s desk would incriminate Duc, but we don’t know what Riley might have told Duc.”

“What about the husband?” Jean-Paul said. “Is it possible that your snooping Larry tells Bartolini, Senior, that his wife is making visits of a certain variety to Riley? In a rage, Bartolini grabs a gun and goes across the street after Riley. He shoots, but it is his beloved wife he hits by mistake. Catastrophe . He is distraught now, of course. Riley foils the murder investigation to save his own-what do you say?-sweet ass, because it is highly problematic to explain why there is a naked dead woman in his bedroom without getting into some grave difficulty. Instead, he dumps the woman’s body and destroys the evidence he can. And there you have it, impasse for thirty years.”

“Chuck’s wife would have the same motivation as Bart,” I said.

“In that case, which one was she gunning for?”

“They were both hit.”

“It is a fine puzzle, chérie .”

The rest of the way, we talked about anything except the people in my neighborhood.

When we got home, the cleaning crew was still at work inside. We found Max out front helping Toshio Sato unload the plants he had brought to repair the ruined flower borders. The two men were arguing affably about what should go where.

Jean-Paul went up onto the porch, a quiet place to return calls, while I went over to greet Mr. Sato.

To the plant discussion, I contributed, “Think tidy, hardy and low maintenance.”

“Not good enough,” Max said, waving off what I’d said. “We should at the very least try for some approximation of my brother’s planting scheme. Red, orange, yellow, and so on.”

“Max, Max, Max.” Mr. Sato took off his hat and wiped the sweatband with his big white handkerchief. “Yesterday I asked Duc to give me some good plants for Al’s borders, and this is what he gave me. I got pink begonia, I got yellow lamium, I got white shrub roses, and I got some rosemary makes a nice blue flower in the spring. You want something else, you go get it. But don’t fool around ’cuz I got grandkids to pick up from lacrosse camp this afternoon.”

At the mention of Duc’s name, Max and I looked at each other. He shook his head; now was not the time to announce Duc’s death to Mr. Sato. So far, the coroner’s office had released no information about Duc.

“So, Tosh,” Max said, “are you and Duc good friends?”

“Nah, the guy’s a pain in the ass, but he knows flowers,” he said, putting his hat back on. “As long as we talk flowers, we get along okay. If you’re thinking of driving all the way down there, don’t bother unless you want to pay retail because Duc didn’t come in today. Now, you gonna give me a hand here or do you want to stand around talking?”

“Mr. Sato,” I said as he sank the end of a shovel into the soil of the flower border. “I was wondering, if Duc worked with you, why don’t I remember meeting him before the other day? Every Monday I would say hello to you and your helper. I never knew them very well, but I’d like to think I would remember them.”

He pulled off his hat again and wiped the sweatband with his big handkerchief. “That’s because Duc never worked for me on Mondays when I did your yard. Guy worked two or three jobs. Mondays and Fridays, he drove a delivery truck, I think.”

“Did he?” I caught Uncle Max’s eye but he just shrugged. “Could he have worked for Bay Laundry and Dry Cleaners?”

“The laundry?” Mr. Sato thought that over as he settled his hat back on his head. “Yeah, I think it was the laundry. I remember he used to pick up dirty tablecloths after big weekend parties. He’d salvage all the wilted centerpieces, recycle the vases and florist foam and junk, save it for when he opened his nursery.”

“Mystery solved,” I said, thinking Duc had just hit the Trifecta: motive, means, and opportunity. “I’ll go see what’s happening inside and get out of your way.”

I was allowed into the living room, but everything from five feet beyond the front door was sealed off behind plastic sheeting. Jean-Paul and I had decided to pack our things and go to a hotel until we could hand the house keys over to the university. Max was leaving, too. He had a late afternoon meeting in LA with Lana and would be leaving for the airport in a few hours. But because of the wall of plastic sheeting, we couldn’t get up the stairs until the crew left.

They wouldn’t need much longer, I was told, because as crime scenes go, this one was relatively small. The man I spoke with launched into a lurid account of a mass shooting at a crack house down in Fremont, but was summoned back to work before he got very far into his tale. I was not unhappy to see him slip back behind the plastic.

Just for information, I called Lyle and asked him how long he thought it would take for workers to finish the house cleanup and repairs. He went through the list I gave him: the blood was being dealt with, a plasterer was scheduled to patch the holes in the walls made by the lab people, then some new paint, and finally a thorough general house cleaning before we handed the keys to University Housing.

“Four days, maybe more if some flooring needs to be replaced,” he said. “Guido told me you guys are headed for France in a couple of weeks. Is this going to put you in a jam?”

“It is, but it has to be done,” I said.

“Maybe we can do each other a favor,” he said. “We have a friend, broke up with his partner, needed a sofa to sleep on, so we took him in. He’s a good guy, a very good guy, and we’ve enjoyed having him. But Roy’s parents are coming out for a visit day after tomorrow and I think it would be better for all if we don’t have an extra person around while they’re here. What if I send him over to you? He doesn’t have any disgusting habits I’m aware of. He works from home so we can put him in charge of overseeing your workers, make sure everything is done right.”

“If he’s willing, it would be a godsend,” I said, feeling a mountain lift from my shoulders.

“No, honey, it would be a Lylesend. Let me go get him so you can work out the details.”