Jonathan Kellerman - The Murder Book

Randall's Western Wear was a red barn in the center of the strip, stuck between Bernardo's Batteries and a windowless bar called El Guapo. Plenty of parking in back; only two pickups and an old Chrysler 300 in the lot.

Inside was the smell of leather and sawdust and sweat, ceiling-high racks of denim and flannel, Stetsons stacked like waffles, cowboy boots and belts on sale, one corner devoted to sacks of feed, a few saddles and bridles off in another. Travis Tritt's mellow baritone eased through scratchy speakers, trying to convince some woman of his good intentions.

Slow day in the ranch-duds biz. No customers, just two salesmen on duty, both white men in their thirties. One wore gray sweats, the other jeans and a black Harley-Davidson T-shirt. Both smoked behind the counter, showing no interest in my arrival.

I browsed, found a tooled cowhide belt that I liked, brought it to the counter and paid. Harley-D rang me up, offering no eye contact or conversation. As he handed back my credit card, I let my wallet open and showed him my LAPD consultant badge. It's a clip-on deal with the department's badge as a logo, not good for much and if you look closely it tells you that I'm no cop. But few people get past the insignia, and Harley was no exception.

"Police?" he said, as I closed the wallet. He wore a bad haircut like his own badge of honor, had a handlebar mustache that drooped to his chin, and a clogged-sinus voice. Stringy arms and stringy hair, a scatter of faded tattoos.

I said, "Thought maybe you could help me with something."

"With what?"

Sweats looked up. He was a few years younger than Harley, with a blond-gray crew cut, a square shelf of a chin finishing a florid face. Stocky build, quiet eyes. My guess was ex-military.

"A few questions about a guy who worked here a while back. Pierce Schwinn."

"Him?" said Harley. "He hasn't been here for what- coupla years?" He looked back at Sweats.

"Coupla," Sweats agreed.

Harley looked at the belt. "What, you bought that to get friendly or something?"

"I bought it because it's a nice belt," I said. "But I have no problem with being friendly. What do you remember about Schwinn?"

Harley frowned. "When he worked here he was a bum. What's up with him now?"

"Have you seen him since he stopped working here?"

"Maybe once," he said. "Or maybe not. If he did come in, it was with his wife- that right?" Another consultation with Sweats.

"Probably."

"Why?" said Harley. "What he do?"

"Nothing. Just a routine investigation." Even as I said it, I felt ridiculous, not to mention criminal. But if Milo could risk violations of the public order, so could I. "So the last time Mr. Schwinn worked here was a couple of years ago?"

"That's right." Harley's smile was derisive. "If you wanna call it work."

"It wasn't?"

"Man," he said, leaning on the counter, "let me tell you: It was a gift. From our mom to him. She owns the place. He used to live down the block, at the Happy Night. Mom felt sorry for him, let him clean up for spare change."

"The Happy Night Motel?" I said.

"Right down the block."

"So it was a sympathy thing," I said. "From your mother."

"She's got a soft heart," said Harley. "Ain't that so, Roger?"

Sweats nodded and smoked and turned up the volume on Travis Tritt. The singer's voice was plaintive and rich; I'd have been convinced.

"Schwinn have any friends?" I said.

"Nope."

"What about Marge- the woman who married him."

"She comes in for feed when she runs out on her bulk order," said Harley. "Yeah, she married him, but that makes her his wife, not his friend."

And when are you entering law school, F. Lee Picky?

I said, "Marge met him here."

"Guess so." Harley's brows knitted. "Haven't seen her either, for a while."

Roger said, "She's probably ordering off the Internet, like everyone. We gotta get with that."

"Yeah," said Harley, listlessly. "So, c'mon tell me, man, why're you asking about him? Someone off him or something?"

"No," I said. "He's dead, all right. Fell off a horse a few months ago."

"That so. Well, she never mentioned it. Marge didn't."

"When's the last time you saw her?"

Harley looked back at Roger. "When's the last time I saw her?"

Roger shrugged. "Maybe four, five months ago."

"Mostly everyone orders bulk from suppliers," said Harley. "And the Internet. We do gotta get hooked up."

"So Marge has been in since Schwinn died, but she never mentioned his death."

"Probably- I couldn't swear to it, man. Listen, don't pin me down on any a this."

Roger gave another sweat-suited shrug. "Marge don't talk much, period."

Travis Tritt bowed out and Pam Tillis weighed in about "The Queen of Denial."

Harley said, "Is this about drugs, or something?"

"Why do you say that?"

Harley fidgeted. His brother said, "What Vance means is that the Happy Night- everyone knows about it. People go in and out. You wanna do us a favor? Get it moved outta here. This block used to be a nice place."

I kept my car in the Randall's lot and walked the block to the motel. The place was a twelve-unit gray stucco C built around a central courtyard and open to the street. The yard was tiled with crumbling bricks, didn't look as if it had been designed for parking, but four dirty compact cars and an equally grubby truck with a camper shell occupied the space. The office was off to the right- a cubicle that smelled of gym sweat manned by a young skin-headed Hispanic man wearing an aqua blue cowboy shirt with bloodred piping. Spangling on the yokes, too, but oily splotches in the armpits and ketchup-colored freckles across the front mitigated the garment's charm. Resting on the pleat was a heavy iron crucifix attached to a stainless-steel chain.

My entry rang a bell over the door and the clerk shot a look at me then glanced under the counter. Reflexively. Probably checking out the requisite pistol. Or just wanting to let me know he was armed. A sign on the wall behind him said CASH ONLY. Same message in Spanish, right below. He didn't move but his eyes jumped around and the left lid twitched. He couldn't be more than twenty-two or -three, could probably take the adrenaline surges and blood-pressure spikes for a few more years.

I showed him the badge, and he shook his head. Atop the counter was a novella - black-and-white photos of characters speaking in captions, storyboard laid out like a comic book. Upside down I caught a few words " sexualismo " " con passion ."

He said, "Don' know nothin' " Heavy accent.

"I haven't asked anything."

"Don' know nothin' "

"Good for you," I said. "Ignorance is bliss."

His stare was dull.

"Pierce Schwinn," I said. "He used to live here."

No answer.

I repeated the name.

"Don' know nothin' "

"An old man, Anglo, white hair, white beard?"

Nothing.

"He used to work at Randall's."

Uncomprehending look.

"Randall's Western Wear- down the block?"

"Don't know nothin' "

"What's your name?"

"Don' kno-" Lights on in the brown eyes. "Gustavo."

"Gustavo what?"

"Gustavo Martinez Reyes."

"You speak any English, Mr. Martinez Reyes?"

Headshake.

"Anyone work here who does?"

"Don' know noth-"

So much for ace detective work. But I'd come this far, why not give Ojai another try- check out a place I knew Marge Schwinn had frequented. The shop where she'd bought the blue albums- O'Neill & Chapin… over by the Celestial Café… from England… discontinued… I bought the last three.

Maybe she hadn't. Or maybe Schwinn had also shopped for himself.

I continued to the next freeway on-ramp and was back on Highway 33 within minutes. The air was cold and clean, every color on full volume, and I could smell ripening fruit in the neighboring groves.