Liar: An Irene Kelly Mystery Part 32

"Yes, I managed to injure him within twenty-four hours of meeting him," I said.

"That's not true!" he protested. "Irene has been nothing but good to me. And I think she was hurt worse today. I told you what happened, Aunt Mary-my injury was my own fault, not Irene's."

"Well, I'm just thankful you weren't hurt any more seriously than that," she said, turning back to the stove. Travis couldn't see her face from where he sat, so he didn't see her smile. I decided she must have been pleased that he had started calling her Aunt Mary. Maybe that was it.

She then began regaling him (and Rachel) with stories of some of the more ridiculous moments of my childhood. The story of Barbara locking me in my grandmother's outhouse had already been met with hilarity.

It was with some relief, then, that I heard Rachel's cell phone ring in the middle of the story about the time my father took off work to come to my school for a conference with one of the nuns, only to discover that the good sister had been barricaded in the library. Aunt Mary hadn't reached the part about the fire when the phone rang.

It was McCain, trying to reach me through her. I told her I'd talk to him and she handed the phone to me. I glanced over at Travis, who was listening to Mary tell another story. I walked out of the kitchen. Rachel watched me, but didn't say anything.

"I understand you've had a rotten day," McCain said.

"I understand you have, too."

He laughed. "Well, n.o.body's giving me half a million to cheer me up."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your inheritance, Ms. Kelly. Arthur Spanning remarried your aunt."

"I know," I said. "I just talked to their priest today. He can tell you that neither Travis nor I knew that, by the way."

"He can tell me that you acted like you didn't know."

"Ask Rachel to give you Harold Richmond's number-he can tell you what happens to people who don't let go of one idea. Maybe you've only ever had one in your lifetime, and this is it. But trust me, it's a bad one."

"Why should I doubt that the sole beneficiary of Briana Maguire's estate should be interested in five hundred thousand dollars?"

"She didn't have five hundred thousand. I doubt she had five hundred."

"You should talk to your buddy Reed Collins about the papers that were found in Mr. Ulkins's office."

I sighed. "That can only mean something came to her through Arthur. Travis should have it. Travis already has most of Arthur's money, and Arthur wouldn't have wanted me to take anything from his estate. I'll talk to his lawyer, if it will make you lay off."

"Where is that lawyer, by the way? No one seems to be able to locate him. And you're keeping your cousin d.a.m.ned close to you, aren't you?"

"Look," I said, "I was going to offer to help you out here, but maybe I'll just have you talk to my own lawyer."

"We'll talk again, Ms. Kelly. By then, you'll need that lawyer."

I walked back toward the kitchen just in time to hear Travis say, "These stories are funny, but they must be embarra.s.sing to Irene. Don't you have any positive stories to tell about her?"

As I stepped into the room, I said, "She's too old to change her habits, Travis."

"I've got all kinds of stories about her," Mary said. "But I don't want her head to swell. She knows I'm proud of her."

"Do you?" Travis asked me.

It was the look of worried uncertainty on Mary's face that made me say, "Of course I do. And the reverse is true as well. She knows I'm proud of her."

"This stew is about to burn," Mary said, suddenly turning away to stir the pot.

I was a.s.signed to the smaller of the two small guest rooms, to sleep on a bed that I had slept in before, and had always found to be comfortable. But on those previous occasions, I hadn't been thrown against a wall a few hours before bedtime.

At about three in the morning, I decided to break down and take half of one of the pain pills I had brought with me, prescribed for an older injury. I rarely took them, but I needed sleep. I got back into bed and was trying to find a tolerable position, trying not to think of Ulkins, when there was a slight tapping at the door.

"Come in," I called.

It was Mary, and by the hall light I could see she had a rather festively colored, comfy-looking robe on. She sat next to the bed, and took my hand. "You poor thing," she said. "Anything I can get you?"

"I'll be all right," I said.

She sat next me, reminiscing for a little while about the numerous childhood injuries I had sustained, recalling some sc.r.a.pes and b.u.mps and a rather spectacular fall from a tree. All the while she softly stroked my hair the way my father used to do when I was little, whenever I had had a particularly bad day, and I wondered drowsily if she had comforted him in this same way when he was a boy. I don't remember falling asleep or hearing her leave the room.

She didn't wake me the next morning to go to Ma.s.s, but she took Travis to St. Matthew's with her while I slept in. Later they dropped me off at my house, where I got into the Karmann Ghia, put the top down and headed for Huntington Beach. They were going shopping-in the Mustang-while I went to talk to the DeMonts.

I took the coast route, even though Pacific Coast Highway was bound to have heavy summer traffic. As it turned out, I didn't have to pay too high a price for choosing it over the inland route; PCH was crowded, but the traffic moved. No local would think of expecting more.

I crossed the bridge over Anaheim Bay, pa.s.sed the wildlife refuge and took my last good look at nature until I reached Warner Avenue. For the next few miles, the highway is dominated by a motley a.s.sortment of buildings: houses, bars, surf shops and restaurants.

Technically, Huntington Beach begins on the left side of the highway just over the bridge, the right side belonging to Surfside and Sunset Beach. But growing up in an area where there are now high school cla.s.ses that will teach you how to hang ten, I had long ago developed other ideas about true local geography. For me, the real Huntington Beach begins when you get within sight of the pier. The two beaches on either side of that pier boast some of the most well-known surfing territory on the coast. That's Huntington Beach.

Before long, I was at the edge of the oil fields that brought on the first boom years in Huntington Beach, back in the 1920s. There were still big platforms just off the coast, but fewer and fewer signs of drilling on sh.o.r.e. Most of the oil fields had given way to developments packed with large, imitation villas in pastel stucco on streets with names like "Sea-point" and "Princeville" and "Castlewood."

I took a last look at the water before turning left on Golden West, still thinking about my surfing days, wondering if I'd ever work up the nerve to paddle out again.

The DeMonts lived in a section of the city that was older that the ones I had just pa.s.sed; their homes were on one of the numbered streets between Main and Golden West. Although the neighborhood was older, that didn't mean the homes were-it soon became apparent that most of the original structures on these streets had given way to new buildings. The result was a mixture of housing: many of the lots had condos and apartment buildings on them; others, large single-family dwellings; a few were smaller, older homes. There was even a strip of colorful faux Victorians.

I turned right on Acacia, found the street I was looking for and slowed when I came to the address for Leda DeMont Rose and her father, Horace-a corner lot. I got lucky with parking and found a s.p.a.ce not far away, then walked back to the corner.

It was a large house, though not among the very newest on the street. Judging by its design, I thought it probably had been built in the 1970s. I studied the addresses and realized that Robert's home was on the same side of the street, at the beginning of the next block, on the opposite corner of the intersection. His was a single-story crackerbox that was probably built in the 1940s. My guess was that a similar house had originally occupied Leda's lot.

While Leda's property was neatly kept, her brother's was a little less so. Robert's place could have used a coat of paint, and looking at the brown, patchy gra.s.s in his yard, I saw that no one could accuse him of wasting water on a lawn. The place wasn't so far gone that you'd call it an eyesore, but it didn't look like the owner had a lot of domestic enthusiasm.

I stood debating which household I should upset first, and decided that even in my current condition, I could take on a guy who was almost a hundred and live to fight another day. I wasn't sure how old Robert was, but Gerald's story about Robert's arrest was enough to make me decide to save Robert for round two.

There was a low wooden fence around the front yard of Leda De-Mont's home; I lifted the latch on the gate and made my way along a set of long, flat platforms set at right angles to one another. The platforms served as steps. On either side of each platform were carefully pruned bushes and shrubs that added privacy as well as greenery. The platforms ended at a deck that was concealed from the street by more plant life. At one end of the deck was a small rock grotto with a stream of water flowing through it. The water pooled at its base; the flow produced a soft gurgling, a not-quite-babbling brook effect.

Tall, ornate double doors stood across from the grotto. Looking at those doors, I made a set of predictions: cathedral ceilings, Italian marble entry, a huge stone fireplace, a loft, white walls and white carpet, and-not really going out on a limb here-lots of tinted windows on the ocean side, which was also the side that faced Robert's place. I rang Leda's doorbell.

I was so surprised when a young woman answered the door, I nearly forgot to congratulate myself on knowing what to expect inside. She looked to be about sixteen or seventeen. She was a pretty girl, with big brown eyes and light-brown hair, which she wore in a long braid. She had on jeans and a red tank top. She was about five-six or so, and slender.

"h.e.l.lo," I said. "Is Leda DeMont in? No, I'm sorry-is Leda Rose in?"

She pulled her gaze away from my bruised cheek and forehead, smiled and said, "Sure, just a minute." She turned toward a hallway and shouted, "Grandma! It's for you!"

"Who is it?" a voice called back.

"Irene Kelly," I said, knowing the name probably wouldn't mean anything to her.

I heard my name shouted back and forth a couple of times, then the voice in the background said, "I'll be right there."

Taking this for permission to let me enter, the young woman guided me to a seat on a white leather sofa.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked.

"No, thanks. Do you live here with your grandmother?"

"No, I just come by on the weekends. I help her take care of my great-grandfather."

At this moment, Leda came out of the hallway. "Laurie?" she called.

"Over here, Grandma," she answered.

Leda DeMont Rose was an older and slightly heavier version of her granddaughter. Her hair was cut short and the brown was a little less natural in shade, but their features were very similar.

She smiled at me and said, "I'm sorry, I don't seem to remember where we've met."

"We haven't met," I said, standing and extending a hand. "I'm Irene Kelly." I took a breath and then launched into the story I had decided to use. "I was hoping to speak to you privately about a rather personal family matter."

She raised a brow, then turned to her granddaughter and said, "Laurie, why don't you keep an eye on old Grumpypuss?"

Reluctantly, and as slowly as possible, Laurie left us.

"Now," Leda said. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, this is rather embarra.s.sing, and I hope it won't be too upsetting to you, but I need to talk to someone who might be able to give me some advice. I've been approached by a private investigator, a Mr. Richmond?"

She sat up a little straighter, but said nothing.

"Mr. Richmond claims to have some information of interest to a cousin of mine, Travis Maguire. You may think of him as Travis Spanning."

Her lips flattened, but she didn't say anything.

"The problem is that my own family has had very little to do with Travis. Even though his mother is my mother's sister, we haven't had much to do with her since the death of your own cousin, Gwendolyn."

"The murder of my cousin," she corrected.

"Yes. I'm sorry. But you see, my mother died not long after Travis was born, and my father didn't like Arthur Spanning, so we never had much to do with him. My parents are no longer living, and I never heard the full story, so this isn't a personal grudge of my own. My problem is, I suppose I could locate Travis, but before I do, I'd like to be a little more sure of Mr. Richmond. He said he worked for you."

At that her mouth fell open in what was clearly unfeigned amazement. "He did? Why that lying scoundrel! I-I can't believe it! Of all the unmitigated gall!"

"Excuse me?"

"That man-that man is the last person I would ever hire to do any detective work for me, I can a.s.sure you! Don't do a thing to help him! Oh! I blame him for-oh, for so much!" she finished bitterly.

I waited.

"Mr. Richmond's incompetence has been the cause of a great many ills, not the least of which is that my aunt's murderer remains at large."

"You're speaking of Arthur Spanning?"

"No, of course not!" she said.

I was stunned. This was the last response I had expected.

"I don't know what problem your father had with Arthur, but I can tell you that he never would have harmed Gwen."

"Never harmed her? But he was a bigamist-"

"Yes. Yes, he was. And that was very wrong. Not that I don't understand what led to that, but it was wrong. And that poor little boy-"

She stood up and paced, wringing her hands. "Do you think there is any chance you will find your cousin?"

"A very good chance," I said.

She began pacing again. I decided to stay silent; she was apparently debating something with herself and I was too unsure of the territory to push her into answering questions.

"You've misjudged him, you know," she said at last.

"My cousin?"

"No, Arthur. You've believed Richmond's story, haven't you?"

"Well, until I got here, I suppose I did," I lied. "But I did think there was something about Mr. Richmond that seemed a little strange."

"Forget Mr. Richmond. Perhaps," she said, sitting down again, "I can do a little something to right an old wrong. Are you willing to keep an open mind, Ms. Kelly?"

"Yes, of course. And call me Irene, please."

"All right, Irene." Several moments pa.s.sed before she spoke again. "First of all, let me tell you that your uncle Arthur never killed Gwen. If Arthur had wanted to end his marriage to Gwen, he would have divorced her. I haven't seen him in years, but I knew Arthur then, my dear, and believe me, he would have never chosen murder over divorce. There was no reason for him to do so."

"Her fortune-"

"Hah!"

"Pardon?"

"I said, 'Hah!' Tell me, Irene, did you see the house across the street on your way in?"

"Yes."

"That's my brother's place. Robert DeMont. Do you know why this house looks better than that one?"

I shook my head.

"Because I married a wonderful man named Elwood Rose, and he wouldn't let my father or brother involve him in any of their harebrained investment schemes. For a number of years, Gwen did not have such a protector, and my father and brother did a great deal of damage to that fortune."