Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

The people were in their late thirties or early forties. Both had pasty, desk-job complexions lobstered with patches of fresh sunburn on upper arm and shoulder, light-brown hair that hung past their shoulders, and rimless glasses. They wore tank tops, shorts, and rubber sandals.

The man stood at a hydrangea bush, clippers in hand. Shorn flowers clumped around his feet like pink fleece. He was thin and sinewy, with mutton-chop sideburns that trailed down his jaw, and his shorts were held up by leather suspenders. A beaded band circled his head.

The woman wore no bra and as she knelt, bending to weed, her breasts hung nearly to the lawn, brown nipples visible. She looked to be the man’s height — five nine or ten — but probably outweighed him by thirty pounds, most of it in the chest and thighs. A possible match for the physical dimensions on Dawn Herbert’s driver’s license but at least a decade too old for the ’63 birthdate.

As I pulled up I realized that the two of them looked vaguely familiar. But I couldn’t figure out why.

I parked and turned off the engine. Neither of them looked up. The little dog started to bark, the man said, “Down, Homer,” and continued clipping.

That was a cue for the bark to go nuclear. As the mutt scrunched his eyes and tested the limits of his vocal cords, the retriever looked on, bemused. The woman stopped weeding and searched for the source of irritation.

She found it and stared. I got out of the car. The mutt stood his ground but went into the face-down submissive posture.

I said, “Hey, boy,” bent and petted him. The man lowered his clippers. All four of them were staring at me now.

“Morning,” I said.

The woman stood. Too tall for Dawn Herbert, too. Her thick, flushed face would have looked right at a barn raising.

“What can I do for you?” she said. Her voice was melodious and I was certain I’d heard it before. But where?

“I’m looking for Dawn Herbert.”

The look that passed between them made me feel like a cop.

“That so?” said the man. “She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Do you know where she does live?”

Another exchange of glances. More fear than wariness.

“Nothing ominous,” I said. “I’m a doctor, over at Western Pediatric Hospital — in Hollywood. Dawn used to work there and she may have some information on a patient that’s important. This is the only address I have for her.”

The woman walked over to the man. It seemed like a self-defense move but I wasn’t clear who was protecting who.

The man used his free hand to brush petals off his shorts. His bony jaw was set hard. The sunburn had gotten his nose, too, and the tip was raw.

“You come all the way here just to get information?” he said.

“It’s complicated,” I said, fudging for enough time to build a credible story. “An important case — a small child at risk. Dawn checked his medical chart out of the hospital and never returned it. Normally I’d have gone to Dawn’s boss. A doctor named Ashmore. But he’s dead. Mugged a couple of days ago in the hospital parking lot — you may have heard about it.”

New look on their faces. Fear and bafflement. The news had obviously caught them off guard and they didn’t know how to respond. Finally they chose suspicion, locking hands and glaring at me.

The retriever didn’t like the tension. He looked back at his masters and started to whine.

“Jethro,” said the woman, and the dog quieted. The black mutt perked up his ears and growled.

She said, “Mellow out, Homer,” in a singsong voice, almost crooning it.

“Homer and Jethro,” I said. “Do they play their own instruments or use backup?”

Not a trace of a smile. Then I finally remembered where I’d seen them. Robin’s shop, last year. Repair customers. A guitar and a mandolin, the former in pretty bad shape. Two folkies with a lot of integrity, some talent, not much money. Robin had done five hundred bucks’ worth of work for some self-produced record albums, a plate of home-baked muffins, and seventy-five in cash. I’d watched the transaction, unnoticed, from up in the bedroom loft. Later, Robin and I had listened to a couple of the albums. Public domain songs, mostly — ballads and reels, done traditionally and pretty well.

“You’re Bobby and Ben, aren’t you?”

Being recognized cracked their suspicion and brought back the confusion.

“Robin Castagna’s a friend of mine,” I said.

“That so?” said the man.

“She patched up your gear last winter. Gibson A-four with a headstock crack? D-eighteen with loose braces, bowed neck, bad frets, and a popped bridge? Whoever baked those muffins was good.”

“Who are you?” said the woman.

“Exactly who I said I was. Call Robin — she’s at her shop, right now. Ask her about Alex Delaware. Or if you don’t want to bother, could you please tell me where I can find Dawn Herbert? I’m not out to hassle her, just want to get the chart back.”

They didn’t answer. The man placed a thumb behind one of his suspender straps.

“Go call,” the woman told him.

He went into the house. She stayed behind, watching me, breathing deeply, bosoms flopping. The dogs watched me too. No one spoke. My eyes caught motion from the west end of the block and I turned and saw a camper back out of a driveway and lumber toward Sepulveda. Someone on the opposite side of the street was flying an American flag. Just beyond that, an old man sat slumped in a lawn chair. Hard to be sure but I thought he was watching me too.

Belle of the ball in Culver City.

The suspendered man came back a few minutes later, smiling as if he’d run into the Messiah. Carrying a pale-blue plate. Cookies and muffins.

He nodded. That and his smile relaxed the woman. The dogs began wagging their tails.

I waited for someone to ask me to dance.

“Get this, Bob,” he said to the woman. “This boy’s her main squeeze.”

“Small world,” said the woman, finally smiling. I remembered her singing voice from the album, high and clear, with a subtle vibrato. Her speaking voice was nice too. She could have made money delivering phone sex.

“That’s a terrific woman you’ve got there,” she said, still checking me out. “Do you appreciate her?”

“Every day.”

She nodded, stuck out her hand, and said, “Bobby Murtaugh. This is Ben. You’ve already been introduced to these characters.”

Greetings all around. I petted the dogs and Ben passed the plate. The three of us took muffins and ate. It felt like a tribal ritual. But even as they chewed, they looked worried.

Bobby finished her muffin first, ate a cookie, then another, chewing nonstop. Crumbs settled atop her breasts. She brushed them off and said, “Let’s go inside.”

The dogs followed us in and kept going, into the kitchen. A moment later I heard them slurping. The front room was flat-ceilinged and darkened by drawn shades. It smelled of Crisco and sugar and wet canine. Tan walls, pine floor in need of finishing, odd-sized homemade bookshelves, several instrument cases where a coffee table would have been. A music stand in the corner was stacked with sheet music. The furniture was heavy Depression-era stuff — thrift-shop treasures. On the walls were a Vienna Regulator that had stopped at two o’clock, a framed and glassed Martin guitar poster, and several handbills commemorating the Topanga Fiddle and Banjo Contest.

Ben said, “Have a seat.”

Before I could comply, he said, “Sorry to tell you this, friend, but Dawn’s dead. Someone killed her. That’s why we got freaked out when you mentioned her name, and the other murder. I’m sorry.”

He looked down at the muffin plate and shook his head.