K is for Killer (36 page)

“Oh, man, we gotta talk. All kinds of shit is coming down on this investigation.”

“You ain't heard the half of it. I just got a call from a buddy in the sheriff's department. Clark Esselmann died this morning in a freak accident.”

“He what?”

“You're never going to believe this. The guy was electrocuted in his swimming pool. Dove in to swim some laps and got fried, I guess. The gardener was killed, too. Fellow jumped in to try to save him and died the same way he did. Esselmann's daughter said she heard a scream, but by the time she got out there, they were both dead. Luckily she figured out what was going on and flipped the circuit breaker.”

“That's really weird,” I said. “Why didn't the breaker cut out to begin with? Isn't that what it's for?”

“Don't ask me. They've got an electrician out there now, checking all the wiring, so we'll see what he comes up with. Anyway, Hawthorn's at the house with the crime scene boys, and I'm on my way over. Want me to swing by and pick you up?”

“Give me six minutes. I'll be waiting out in front.”

“See you.”

 

W
hen Cheney and I reached the entrance to Clark Esselmann's estate, he pressed the button and announced our arrival to a hollow-sounding someone on the other end. “Just a minute and I'll check,” the fellow said, and clicked off. During the drive, I'd told Cheney as much as I could about Esselmann's confrontation
with Stubby Stockton at the meeting the night before. I'd also told him about my conversation with Berlyn and Danielle's claim about Esselmann's relationship with Lorna.

“You've been busy,” he remarked.

“Not busy enough. I came over here last night thinking I should talk to him. I don't have any idea what I intended to say, but as it turned out, the place was dark, and I didn't think I should rouse the household to quiz him about his rumored kinkiness.”

“Well, it's too late now.”

“Yeah, isn't it,” I said.

The gates swung open, and we started up the winding driveway, which was bordered with vehicles: two unmarked cars, the electrician's truck, and a county car that probably belonged to the coroner. Cheney parked the Mazda behind the last car in line, and we approached on foot. A fire department rescue vehicle and an orange-and-white ambulance were parked out front, along with a black-and-white patrol unit from the county sheriff's department. A uniformed sheriff's deputy left his post near the front door and moved to intercept us. Cheney flashed his badge, confirming his identity, and the two spoke together briefly before the deputy waved us through.

“How come you're allowed in?” I murmured as we crossed the porch.

“I told Hawthorn there might be a peripheral connection to a case we've been working. He's got no problem with it as long as we don't interfere,” Cheney said. He turned and pointed a finger at my face. “You make any trouble and I'll wring your neck.”

“Why would I make trouble? I'm as curious as you are.”

At the front door we paused, stepping aside for the two paramedics from the fire department who were packed up and departing, presumably no longer needed.

We moved into the house and through the big country kitchen. The interior was quiet. No audible voices, no droning of the vacuum, no ringing telephones. I didn't see Serena or any of the household staff. The French doors stood open, and the patio, like a movie set, seemed crowded with people whose status and function were not immediately clear. Most loitered at a respectful distance from the pool, but the relevant members of the team were hard at work. I recognized the photographer, the coroner, and his assistant. Two plainclothes detectives were taking measurements for a sketch. Now that we'd been admitted, no one seemed to question our right to be present. From what we could ascertain, it hadn't yet been established that a crime had been committed, but the scene was being treated with meticulous attention because of Esselmann's high standing in the community.

Both Esselmann's body and that of the gardener had been removed from the water. They lay side by side, covered discreetly with tarps. Two sets of feet were visible, one bare and one shod in work boots. The bottoms of the bare feet were marked by an irregular pattern of burns, the  flesh blackened in places. There was no sign of the dog, and I assumed he'd been locked up somewhere. The second set of paramedics stood together quietly, probably waiting for the okay from the coroner to transport the bodies to the morgue. It was clear they had no further business to conduct.

Cheney left me to my own devices. He was only marginally more entitled to be there than I was, but he felt free to circulate, while I thought it was smarter to keep a low
profile. I turned and looked off toward the adjacent properties. By day, the rolling lawns were patchy, the grasses interseeded with a mix of fescue and Bermuda, the latter currently dormant and forming stretches of tatty brown. The flowering shrubs that surrounded the patio formed a waist-high wall of color. I could see exactly where the gardener had been working that morning because the hedge he'd been clipping was crisply trimmed across one section and shaggy after that. His electric clippers lay on the concrete where he must have dropped them before he jumped into the water. The lap pool looked serene, its dark surface reflecting a portion of the steeply pitched roof. Perhaps it was an artifact of my overactive imagination, but I could have sworn the faint scent of cooked flesh still lingered in the morning air.

I wandered across the patio toward the breezeway that connected the four garages to the house, and then I ambled back. I didn't see how Esselmann's death could be an accident, but neither did I understand how it could be connected to Lorna's death. It was
possible
he'd killed her, but it didn't seem likely. If he felt remorse for their relationship, or if he feared exposure, he might have elected to commit suicide, but what a bizarre way to go about it. For all he knew, Serena might have been the one who happened on the scene, and she'd have died along with him.

I noticed activity at the side of the house closest to the pool: the electrician talking with the two detectives. He gestured his explanation, and I could see all of them looking from the electrical panel to the equipment shed that housed the pump, the filter, and the big heater for the pool. The electrician moved over to the side of the pool near the far end. He hunkered, still talking, while one of the detectives peered down into the water, squinting. He got down
on his hands and knees and leaned closer. He asked the electrician a question and then took off his sport coat and  rolled up his sleeve, reaching into the depths. The photographer was summoned, and the detective began to detail a new set of instructions. She reloaded her camera and changed the lens.

The other detective crossed to the coroner's assistant, and they conferred. The coroner had stepped back, and the  two paramedics began to prepare the bodies for removal to the ambulance. From where I was standing, I could see the news ripple across the assembled personnel. Whatever the information, it spread from twosome to twosome as the group rearranged itself. The detective moved off, and I eased my way toward the coroner's assistant, knowing if I were patient, the news train would eventually reach my little station. The electrician had left his toolbox on the patio table, and he came over to pick it up. In the meantime, the deputy was talking to the fingerprint tech, who hadn't had much work to do so far. The three of them began to chat, looking back toward the pool. I overheard the electrician use the word
deify
, and my thoughts jumped to the transcript I'd been discussing with Hector.

I laid a hand on his arm, and he glanced back at me. “Excuse me. I don't mean to butt in, but
what
did you say?”

“I said there's a problem with the GFI. Wire's come loose, which is why the circuit breaker didn't trip like it should have. One of the pool lights is busted out, and that's what sent current through the water.”

“I thought the term was GFCI, ground fault circuit interrupter.”

“Same thing. I use both. GFI's easier, and everybody knows what you mean.” The electrician was a clean-cut
kid in his twenties, one of that army of experts who make the civilized world run a little more smoothly. “Damnedest thing I ever saw,” he remarked to the deputy. “Break an underwater flood like that, you'd have to take a stick and poke it out from on top. Detective's going to find out when the pool was last serviced, but somebody really blew it. We're talking a big lawsuit. And I mean big.”

The fingerprint technician said, “Think the gardener could have done it?”

“Doing what? You don't punch out a pool light by accident. I told the detective, that glass is tough. It takes work. If it'd been at night with the pool lights on, somebody might have noticed. Daytime like this and all that black tile, you can hardly see the near end, let alone the far.”

From the other side of the patio, the detective motioned the electrician back, and he moved in that direction. Where I was, the deputy and the fingerprint technician had shifted the discussion to somebody who'd been electrocuted by his electric lawn mower because his mother, trying to be helpful, stuck the three-pronged plug into a two-pronged extension cord. The insulation on the neutral wire was defective, which caused direct contact between the cord and the metal handle of the mower. The deputy went into quite a bit of detail about the nature of the damage, comparing it to another case he'd seen where a child bit through an electric cord while standing in a puddle of water in the bathroom.

I kept thinking about the tape recording, thinking about the phrase
She goes in at the same time every day.
Maybe Esselmann wasn't the intended victim. Maybe Serena was meant to die instead. I looked for Cheney but couldn't seem to find him. I approached the nearest of the two detectives. “Would you have any objection if I talked to Mr.
Esselmann's daughter? It won't take but a minute. I'm a friend of hers,” I said.

“I don't want you discussing Mr. Esselmann's death. That's my job.”

“It's not about him. This is about something else.”

He studied me for a moment and then glanced away. “Keep it brief,” he said.

I
went through the kitchen toward the front of the house. In the foyer, I took a right and headed up the stairs. I had no idea how the bedrooms were laid out. I moved down the hallway from room to room. At the end of the corridor, there was an intersecting T with a sitting room on the right and a bedroom on the left. I could see Serena lying on a four-poster bed, covered with a light blanket. The room was sunny and spacious, yellow-and-white paper on the walls in a tiny rosette print. There were white curtains at the window, and all the woodwork was done in white.

Serena didn't seem to be asleep. I knocked on the door frame. She turned her head and looked at me. I didn't think she'd been crying. Her face was pale, unmarked by tears, the expression in her eyes more one of resignation than sorrow, if one can make that distinction. She said, “Are they finished out there?”

I shook my head. “It'll probably be a while. You want me to call anyone?”

“Not really. I called Roger. He's coming over as soon as he can get away from the plant. Did you want something?”

“I need to ask you a question, if you can tolerate the intrusion.”

“That's all right. What is it?”

“Do you use the pool on a daily basis?”

“No. I never liked swimming. That was Daddy's passion. He had the lap pool put in about five years ago.”

“Does someone else here swim? One of the maids, or the cook?”

She thought about it briefly. “Occasionally a friend might call and ask to use the pool, but no one else,” she said. “Why?”

“I heard a taped conversation under circumstances I'd prefer not to go into. Lorna was talking to a man who used the phrase
She goes in at the same time every day.
I thought the reference might be to swimming, but at the time it made no sense. I was just wondering if there was a ‘she' on the premises who went in ‘at the same time every day.' ”

She smiled wanly. “Just the dog, and she only goes in when Dad does. You saw her the other night. They play fetch, and then when he does his laps, she swims alongside him.”

I could feel a flicker of confusion. “I thought the dog was a male. Isn't his name Max?”

“It's Maxine. Max for short,” she said. “Actually, her real name's much longer because she's pedigreed.”

“Ah, Maxine. How's she doing? I didn't see her downstairs. I thought she might be up here with you.”

Serena struggled into a sitting position. “Oh, heavens. Thanks for reminding me. She's still at the groomers. I took her over first thing this morning. The shop owner even came in early to accommodate the appointment. I was
supposed to pick her up at eleven, but it completely slipped my mind. Ask Mrs. Holloway if she'd go over there; at least call and let them know what's happened. Poor Max, poor girl. She's going to die without Daddy. The two of them were inseparable.”

“Mrs. Holloway's the housekeeper? I haven't seen her, either, but I can call if you like.”

“Please. Maybe Roger can pick her up on his way over here. It's Montebello Pet Groomers in the lower village. The number's on the planning center in the kitchen. I don't want to put you to any trouble.”

“It's no trouble,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“Really, I'm fine. I just want some time alone, and then I'll be down. I'll probably have to talk to the detective again, anyway. I can't believe this is happening. It's all so grotesque.”

“Take your time,” I said. “I'll tell the pet groomers someone's picking Max up later. You want this closed? It might be quieter.”