Bill Pronzini: Crazybone

Greenwood was a little pocket of the good life sewn into the low eastern slopes of the Santa Morena Ridge, on the peninsula about halfway between San Francisco and the smoggy sprawl of Silicon Valley. During Gold Rush times, it had been the only trading post in the region and was a gathering place for the lumberjacks and bullwhackers who worked the nearby sawmills. No lumberjack or bullwhacker could afford to work or shop there these days, much less live in the area. Nor could anyone else whose annual income ran below six figures.

Some years back a national magazine had described Greenwood’s larger neighbor, Woodside, as a community “inhabited by gentlemen farmers, gentlemen ranchers, assorted exurbanites, and horses.” The description suited Greenwood equally well. Mecca for the horsey set. Riding academies, commercial stables, a paddock or two on every block. Horses, in fact, were so prevalent and held in such regard that local laws had been enacted permitting easements across private property for bridle paths, and backyard stabling if a homesite was an acre or more. There was even an equine licensing tax.

It was the sort of place, despite its gentility and scenic attractions, that made me vaguely uncomfortable. I could never have lived there no matter how much money I had. Too snooty and white bread for my blood, lacking in ethnic mix. Besides which, the only interest I have in horses is now and then watching them run at Tanforan or Golden Gate Fields.

Still, I didn’t mind a short visit on those rare occasions when a business matter took me down that way. Quiet there, unlike most other towns strung together along the Peninsula. Densely wooded slopes and hollows, pretty little creeks, gated and walled estates built with old money and maintained by new. The old-fashioned estates appeal to what Kerry and others have referred to as my dinosaur nature. Fortresslike stone houses and outbuildings, more than a few in the English Tudor style — anachronisms in the days of Y2K, relics of a time when nobody bothered to pretend that Americans live in a classless society. Not a better time; hell, no. But one I understood and identified with far more than the present day, when nearly everyone seems to have prostrated himself at the clay feet of the god Technology.

I turned off Highway 280 and rolled into Greenwood at two P.M. on a bright, crisp October afternoon. The town center was a country-village collection of the quaint and the modern: weathered wood and Spanish-style buildings even older than I am, cheek by jowl with tasteful little strip malls and a pseudo-rustic shopping center. The address I wanted turned out to be a two-story, tile-roofed, white stucco pile at least a century old, probably once a hotel and now a warren of professional offices. The one in which Richard Twining held sway was on the ground floor facing Greenwood Road, behind a chain-hung shingle that proclaimed R. V. Twining — Insurance Services.

Twining was waiting for me with a smile, a strong handshake, and a friendly clap on the shoulder. Pure salesman, and a good one to get away with a somewhat flashy presence in such a staid environment. He was about forty, blond, tanned, good-looking, dressed in knife-creased beige slacks, an expensive navy-blue blazer, a silk shirt with the top two buttons undone, and a filigreed gold chain around his sunburned neck. An athlete once, I thought, still more or less in shape but with incipient jowls and the suggestion of a paunch. He had one of those deep, rumbly voices that some women consider an index to both masculinity and virility. The wedding ring on his left hand was three or four ounces of platinum gold and the private office he ushered me into was handsomely furnished. Doing all right for himself. R.V. was, in the insurance racket.

“Have a seat, make yourself comfortable,” he said. “Coffee? Tea? Soft drink? Or I’ve got some really good twelve-year-old Scotch—”

“Nothing, thanks.”

He sat down and leaned back in a padded leather armchair. “So. Frankly I don’t know why Intercoastal would send an investigator out on a matter like this. I mean, you’d think they’d be happy about it and just let it slide.”

“You’ve talked with Ken Fujita?”

“Oh, sure. But he wasn’t exactly forthcoming, if you know what I mean. He confide in you?”

“Pretty much. How well do you know Ken?”

“Not very.”

“Well, I’ve done some work for him in the past. Inconsistent behavior in policy holders bothers him.”

“Me, too, for that matter,” Twining said. “But this case is just the opposite. How could there be any intent to defraud on Mrs. Hunter’s part?”

“It’s not that, it’s the inconsistency itself. Why would anybody turn down fifty thousand dollars? That’s what bothers Fujita.”

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it? She doesn’t need the money. Jack Hunter left her well off.”

“Not so well off, according to your report, that fifty thousand wouldn’t be welcome. For her daughter’s education, if nothing else. And why wouldn’t she give you a specific reason? Why act the way she did?”

Twining scratched thoughtfully at his underlip. “I’ll admit that makes me wonder, too. But I still don’t see the need for an investigation. I could’ve worked on her myself to get the answers. No offense.”

“None taken. There’s another reason I was called in, the main one. Did Fujita discuss the publicity angle with you?”

“No. What publicity angle?”

“Intercoastal wants Mrs. Hunter to take the money,” I said, “as a, quote, gesture of good will, unquote. Widow refuses payoff, compassionate insurance company convinces her to change her mind for the benefit of her family. It’ll look good in the media and the head office, and brokers like you can milk it for new customers.”

Twining wagged his head. Then he said, “You know, it’s not a bad idea at that. Worth a lot more in the long run than the fifty K.”

I said, “Uh-huh. But they don’t want to push it until they’re certain the Hunters are the all-American family they appear to be. No skeletons, nothing that can backfire on Intercoastal.”

“And that’s where you come in.”

“Skeleton hunter, right. No pun intended.”

“Okay, then. So how can I help?”

“Well, your report was pretty detailed, but I’d like to go over the specifics if you don’t mind. Ask a few questions.”

“No problem. Fire away.”

“Let’s start with the deceased. How well did you know Jackson Hunter?”

“Casually. We both played golf at Emerald Hills. That’s where I signed him, in the bar at the country club.” Twining grinned. “Nothing breaks down resistance like three or four martinis.”

“Policy on his life only.”

“Right. Term life, twenty-five thousand double indemnity. I tried to talk him into a joint spousal policy, but he wouldn’t go for it. He didn’t even want Sheila — Mrs. Hunter — to know he’d taken out one on himself.”

“Why, did he say?”

“Something about her hating the whole idea of insurance.”

“You respected his wishes?”

“Sure. Customer is always right.”

“This was, what, eighteen months ago?”

“About that.”

“You see him much after you signed him?”

“Now and then. Casually, like I said.”

“How did he seem to you? Stable, happy? Or a man with problems?”

“I’d say reasonably happy and rock-solid. Drank a little too much, but then, don’t we all sometimes.”