Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

“Neither of them made it in pictures but Enid snagged herself a husband with connections. You think at some point the sisters could’ve had a decent relationship? If they did, Zina could’ve been an invited party guest.”

“It’s a thought,” I said.

“Even if they didn’t get along, Zina could have still been at Enid’s party, as a crasher. And something happened. Or we’re totally off base and she died some other way.”

He got up again, paced longer, remained on his feet. Blanche watched him, then shuffled over. He didn’t notice her until she began breathing hard. “Fine, fine, relax, you’re appreciated... Alex, what I still can’t figure out is how someone in Zelda’s state managed to put any of this together.”

“As I said, we may never know,” I said. “But her mental status may have been less of a factor than I thought. Her breakdown was a process, not an event. When I saw her five years ago, she was acting odd but functioning well enough to do her job. Doing it well enough to be kept on a second season. Before that, she was likely more lucid.”

“You’re saying she mighta been sufficiently together to do the snooping.”

“More likely paying someone to snoop.”

“Fine. But she waited until she was homeless and full-blown crazy to go into action. Breaking into Enid’s place and announcing she was a rightful heir.”

“Maybe that wasn’t her first attempt.”

“She’s been bugging Enid for a while? Look who’s here, Auntie. Your worst nightmare?”

I said, “Expensive nightmare.”

“If Zina was cut off, would Zelda have a claim on anything?”

“The mere threat of going to court might’ve been enough. Beyond the money, there was the issue of Enid’s social standing. Rich aunt in Bel Air, helpless, impaired niece on the streets? Can you imagine if the Times got hold of it?”

He returned to the sofa. “You’re making sense but is any of that a motive for multiple murder?”

“Get someone sufficiently threatened and there’s no telling,” I said. “You’ve seen enough chain reactions, one thing leading to another.”

“True but there could also be something to your fun factor. You want to eliminate complications, there are quicker, neater ways than feeding someone poison and watching them die. That says hatred — oh, man, we still need to find out how Oletta and Martin died. Remember what the paper said about her first wedding? Big gardens, lots of flowers? If the two of them got bad stomachaches after drinking homemade consommé, it’s gonna get way more interesting.”

“Enid was nine at the time,” I said.

“You don’t believe in bad seeds? So to speak.”

“A calculated dual poisoning? That would be very precocious.”

“So one of the other sibs did it. Or all the kids conspired, family that slays together, stays together.”

He phoned Andy Bach.

“That, Lieutenant, I can probably get right here in our records.”

“You’re a prince.”

“Tell my wife, she’s been looking at me like I’m a frog... we’ve got a real good record of automotive accidents, had a federal grant to organize it, so sit tight... yup, here it is, single-car collision, ice on the road, your basic skid-out... hit a mulberry tree. Two fatalities, driver and passenger, Mr. and Mrs. M. Rutherford.”

“Was it a Packard?”

“Nope, a Lincoln.”

“Shucks,” said Milo. “Here I was thinking of becoming a think-tank cowboy!”

He thanked Bach again, hung up, returned to the computer. “Now it’s time for a seminar on Counselor Loach.”

Jarrell Yarmuth Loach was sixty-seven years old, with an occasional penchant for speeding in his Audi but no criminal record. The headshot on his firm’s website showed a square-faced man with snow-white hair and rimless glasses. Squinty eyes behind the lenses, a crooked smile that had probably once been boyish.

Milo had called him Mr. CEO. My first thought was Cary Grant’s plainer brother.

Berkeley undergrad, Hastings law, no problems with the state bar. The summary on the site featured an impressive list of civic organizations and a lectureship at the U.’s law school.

Milo said, “Get this: He’s taught classes on business ethics in estate law.”

“The halls of academe,” I said. “Those who don’t do, teach.”

Loach paid property tax in the State of California for two addresses: a house on Thayer Avenue in Westwood and a condominium at Arroyo Blanco Estates, Palm Springs.

Milo began leafing through his notes. “Thought so. Damn. One of the places I called when I was looking into Enid.” He phoned, used his Nice Guy voice and a mutual need for discretion to get what he wanted from the on-duty manager, hung up looking fulfilled.

“Loach pays for the place but he never uses it. But guess what, Enid has. Her name didn’t come up because they were checking the owners book and guests are entered in the tenant log.”

“Organized,” I said.

“High-security and all that. Guests need to be preapproved by the management. They’ve also got a card-key system that feeds straight into their central computer, so they can tell if someone’s there and exactly when they come and go. Last time Enid clocked in — last time anyone did — was three months ago. By herself, no maid, the place provides housekeeping services.”

“Three months ago is around the time of Rod Salton’s death.”

He frowned, flipped more pages. “Interesting. She arrived two days before Salton’s body was found, departed two days after. Think that’s significant?”

“Gives her somewhat of an alibi,” I said. “Maybe that was the point.”

“Somewhat?”

“She cooks up a batch of aconite and gives it to Loach, her being elsewhere means nothing. Is it certain Loach wasn’t at the condo with her?”

“According to the manager, a hundred percent certain. Every person gets logged in and out at the gatehouse, no exceptions, the residents want it that way. And like I said, Loach is an absentee owner, the manager’s been there two years, hasn’t laid eyes on him.”

“A condo in Palm Springs,” I said. “Enid tweaked reality, Smooth Lying 101. So where are the two of them now?”

“For all we know, back at her place. Or, lacking that, his.”

We drove to St. Denis, pulled up to Enid DePauw’s gate, and pushed the button. No response to three attempts. Searching for a thin spot in the trees behind the stone wall, Milo walked a bit before finding a niche for a foothold. Hoisting himself up, he lost his footing, tried again, and hung on long enough for a brief peek.

“Lights off everywhere. Unless they’re having a slumber party at eight, they ain’t here.”

We continued south, across Sunset, into the section of Westwood that flanks the U. on the east. J. Yarmuth Loach’s house was an unassuming two-story traditional. Audi coupe in the driveway, no mail piled up in front of the door, a smatter of lights on.

Milo eased to the curb. “No sign of Enid’s Porsche or her Rolls and I don’t have a plausible story for showing up at night. Can you think of one?”

I couldn’t.

He said, “I’ll bop by tomorrow morning, try to catch him before he leaves for work. Or the country club or wherever he hangs out, seeing as he doesn’t work much. Let’s collect your wheels and you can go home and kiss both the women in your life.”

He showed up at my front door at eight-thirty the next morning. “Spoke to Loach’s maid. Señor no aqui, left with two suitcases. She had no idea where he was headed but two pieces of luggage says more than an overnight. I called the manager at Arroyo Blanco, asked to be notified if they show up. Just in case they decided to go international, I’ve been trying to reach my contact at Homeland Security, let me give it another whirl.”