Roughstock (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (19 page)

"Would you like something, Gail? I've got some chardonnay in the refrigerator. Or there's a nice shiraz." Deb was always cordial.

I revised my thoughts of leaving. "I'll take the shiraz."

Deb got the bottle from the counter and poured two glasses. We shared a taste for good wine, though Deb knew a great deal more about it than I did. She worked as a waitress in the most elegant restaurant in Capitola, and had learned a good deal in the course of her job about both wine and food.

"So what are you up to?" she asked, as we settled ourselves on two wicker bar stools, our backs, in common unspoken opinion, to the TV.

"I'm trying to find out about a woman named Elaine Hollister," I said and took a sip of the shiraz. It
was good, powerful and fruity at the same time.

"She lives at the end of the street," Deb said, "Did Bret tell you?"

"Uh-huh."

"What do you want to know about her? Does she need an alibi?"

I almost choked on a swallow of wine. Trying to cough and talk at the same time, I sputtered, "What do you mean?"

"Her ex-husband was murdered, right?"

"Yeah."

"So I wondered if she was a suspect and might need an alibi. And I know you, Gail." Deb grinned. "You're nosy."

I laughed. "Nosy" could quite accurately describe what I was doing.

"Anyway," Deb went on, "the reason I ask is I can give her an alibi."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. I was walking home from work that night, the night her ex was murdered, and I saw her walking to her front door right around midnight. Stumbling would be a better word."

"Was she drunk?"

"Blind. She was weaving down her front path and kind of came to rest on the door. I stood there for a minute, on the street, watching her, thinking she might need help, but she eventually got the key in the lock and staggered inside."

"Did she see you?"

"It's possible, but there's no way she would remember. She was way too drunk, not to mention that though I know her by sight, I doubt she would know me. She's the lady of the manor, we're just some of the peasants who live in the village." Deb said this without resentment, simply stating the facts of life.

I stared out the window toward a large three-story house on which Deb's eyes had been fixed while she told this story. "Is that her house?" I asked, pointing.

A last shaft of sunlight lit up the facade and front yard as Deb nodded an affirmative. "Yep."

The house was an extensively remodeled Victorian-so extensively, in fact, that there was very little Victorian character left to it. Someone had chosen to shingle it all over and preserve the shingles with a shiny golden-brown varnish. This, combined with an equally shiny forest-green trim, gave the house a vaguely nautical feeling that seemed to sit oddly with its steep old-fashioned roof and prominent bay window. The tiny front yard, immaculately landscaped, had that boring assortment of evergreen shrubs surrounding a handkerchief lawn that was the sure sign of some "professional" firm. It
wasn't a homey-looking house. There was, however, a dark green Mercedes in the driveway.

I set my empty wineglass down and smiled at Deb. "I think I'm going to pay her a visit. Do you mind if I tell her you saw her that night?"

"No, that's fine. I'd be happy to tell my story to the cops."

"Thanks for the wine."

Deb murmured a good-bye; Bret barely nodded in my direction as I went quietly out the door, excited commentary from the TV trailing in my wake.

Laney Hollister's house seemed to tower above me as I walked up the front path. Three stories high, and wedged between its neighbors as city houses are, the steep pitch of its roof and the growing dusk made it seem even taller than it was. I banged the brass knocker on the shiny green front door and felt like a small, insignificant ant.

The woman who opened the door matched Bret's description. Roughly forty, she was still very pretty. And "pretty" was the word that came to mind. Her small, neat features had no drama or force, but they were appealing; equally so the trim figure, tanned skin, and long, wavy blond hair. It
was the accoutrements, so to speak, that made my mouth drop open stupidly. In a second, I knew exactly what Bret meant by trouble.

Laney Hollister, for all her prettiness, looked ridiculous. She wore black jeans of an impossible tightness, clear plastic high-heeled sandals with rhinestones, a matching belt, and a black form-fitting knit top that bared her midriff and was deeply scooped to show her considerable cleavage. This top featured, unbelievably, a gold zipper with a large rhinestone-studded pull ring. To embellish this outfit she wore hot pink lipstick, chalky matte-tone foundation and blush, and eye shadow and mascara that looked like they'd been laid on with a trowel. Her scent was so heavy I had the impulse to take three fast steps backward.

I stared at her in disbelief for a moment that verged on rudeness before I recovered my wits. "Ms. Hollister, I'm Dr. McCarthy. I was a friend of your ex-husband, Jack."

"Yes?" Her voice was high and chirpy, like a seventeen-year-old's. In fact, I realized, her whole getup and demeanor was that of a teenager; the wide-eyed look she gave me now had an innocent friendliness at strange variance with her cheap hooker appearance.

"Uh, this may sound kind of funny," I fumbled, "but a friend of mine happened to see you on the night Jack was murdered, and wondered if that might be of use to you."

Laney Hollister flapped her heavily mascaraed eyelashes up and down and then giggled. There was no other word for it. "Oh, you mean for an alibi?"

"Yes."

"Well, I was out with some friends that night so I already have one." She regarded me curiously. "I'm going out in a little while, but you could come in for a minute and tell me about it."

Since this was just what I'd been hoping for, I stepped promptly in the door, gazing around with frank interest that turned immediately to disappointment. The house, like the yard, had plainly been done by professionals. It
wasn't unattractive, but it lacked any sort of individuality. Oriental rug copies lay on a polished oak floor with fake antiques in every corner. The many small china knickknacks and cute arrangements of dried flowers were right in scale with the rest of the junk.

I sat down on a plump cream-colored couch that faced the bay window, and smiled in my friendliest, most professional way at my hostess.

Laney Hollister looked uncomfortable. Fidgeting with a gold bracelet, she said, "You know, Dr., uh, McCarthy, I don't really think I need an alibi or anything. Nobody thinks I killed Jack."

I nodded encouragingly but didn't say anything, thinking of Jeri Ward's technique.

Laney sat in an armchair and crossed one leg over the other. "I'd be crazy to kill Jack. I mean, why would I?"

"For his money," I suggested. This was way out of line; I wondered how Laney would respond.

"Oh, you mean that silly will. Well, I wouldn't kill him for his money. That's ridiculous."

"You did know about his will, then?" I couldn't believe I was getting away with questioning her like this.

"Oh, I knew," she gave a brief pout. "We all knew."

"His other exes, you mean. Do you think one of them killed him?" Jesus, Gail, I thought in disgust. Why don't you just suggest Tara murdered the man. Laney giggled again, apparently not bothered by the crude question. "I'd believe it. Especially Karen."

That wasn't what I'd had in mind. "Why Karen?" I asked.

"Karen's still very bitter, you know. She thinks I took Jack away from her, and then when Jack and I got divorced, she thought I got too much money. I think she really wants more money." Laney smiled sweetly.

"I thought Karen divorced Jack."

"Oh, she did. But it was because Jack and I were running around together and everybody knew it. Jack didn't try to hide it. He was in love with me." She said it proudly. I pictured her ten years or more ago, when the girlish manner wouldn't have contrasted so oddly with her age, and her looks would have been even more spectacular. I could understand a man being infatuated with her. A stupid man, anyway.

"What about Tara?" I asked, just to see how she'd react. "Oh her." Laney sniffed. "I wouldn't know about her. I'm sure she needs money, too."

No love lost there, obviously. It
was hard to picture the two women in the same room, they were such opposites. Other than being blond, good-looking, and dumb, I added.

Laney fidgeted a little in her chair and I realized my time was probably running out. Quickly I ran through Deb's story, leaving out, naturally, the dead-drunk aspect. Laney seemed neither concerned nor very interested, though she did decide to write down Deb's name and phone number. While she fetched paper and pen, I went rapidly through potential questions and settled on the most important one.

"Do you know where Karen lives?" I asked, wondering if this would be stretching even Laney's limits.

Apparently not. "Down on Beach Hill. In a condo. When she and Jack first separated, before I got married to him, I used to go drive by her place. It's weird, I know," she giggled, "but it's like I was so curious about her. I mean she hated me. It was strange. I'd drive by and look in her windows sometimes. I used to call her and hang up when she answered." Laney giggled again, clearly not bothered at revealing these somewhat embarrassing facts.

"Where on Beach Hill?" I asked, adding lamely, "I used to know Karen, years ago."

"On Cliff Street," she said. "Her condo's right on the corner of Cliff and Third. You can't miss it."

"Thanks," I said, handing her Deb's name and phone number, neatly printed on a sheet of notepaper that had a teddy bear in one corner and "Have a nice day" across the top.

"Sorry I have to rush you out." Laney led the way into her hall. "I'm going out to dinner and he should be here soon. I need to do my makeup."

I followed her, wondering exactly what she planned to add to the already impressive array of cosmetics on her face. Just how thick could you apply the stuff, anyway?

I was grinning to myself as she ushered me out, but the grin vanished instantly as I started down her walk. Someone was coming up it. Laney's dinner date? I looked again, not believing my eyes. The person coming up Laney's front walk was Travis Gunhart.

EIGHTEEN

It
was almost dark, but Laney's porch light lit up Trav's aghast face reasonably clearly. We stared at each other with mutual expressions of horror; Laney looked nonplused.

"You're early," she said blankly, and I registered that she hadn't meant for me to see Travis.

He was wearing clean jeans, a pressed long-sleeved shirt, shiny cowboy boots, and a belt with a well-polished trophy buckle. His light brown hair was combed neatly and he definitely looked as "dressed for dinner" as I had ever seen him. He seemed half angry, half frightened, as the shock died out of his face. I had the brief impression that he thought of simply turning and running, realized it would be both ridiculous and useless, and chose to do the next best thing.

"Hi, Gail," he said curtly, and walked right by me. Brushing roughly past Laney, he stepped into her house.

Laney gave me an agitated look and followed him, shutting her shiny green front door behind her. I stood on her porch in a state of shock, staring at the green paint and brass knocker and drawing some very unwelcome conclusions.

Travis, my God. Travis was dating Laney. Or so it would seem, anyway. Perhaps-the thought was even worse-he'd just teamed up with Laney to get a share of her inheritance.

But Bronc had given Travis an alibi. I thought about that for a second. Would Bronc lie to protect Travis? Surely not if he thought Trav had murdered Jack?

But perhaps he thought Travis couldn't have done it and was simply protecting him by saying he'd been on the ranch when in fact he hadn't. And Bronc presumably didn't know Travis was seeing Laney.

I stared at the towering house, its colors dimmed to a uniform drabness by the progress of evening. Someone had drawn the curtains across the bay window. I shivered. It
was getting cold and I was hungry. Not to mention I had no idea what to say if Travis came out.

Abruptly I started back toward my truck. I'd have dinner and think this through. Not that thinking would help. But I still had one more chore left to do. And, fortunately, I knew an excellent restaurant near Beach Hill.

Riva Fish House is right out on the Santa Cruz Wharf, overlooking Lighthouse Point and the Boardwalk. An almost full moon laid a silver-edged swath of ripples across the dark water of the bay as I drove down the old pier. Few people about, the carnival shapes of the Boardwalk still and ghostly in the off season, waves plashing against the pilings. A sharp little breeze lifted my hair off my face when I got out of the truck, and I took a deep breath of the cold, briny, winter-ocean smell.

Walking across the cracked tarmac, I pushed open Riva's swinging door and went inside. It's a pleasant place-windows looking out on the bay, recessed lighting, curving stainless-steel trim complementing a polished mahogany bar. Most important, it has that indefinable something a bar needs to have-a restfulness even when crowded with chattering tourists. Tonight the throngs were absent, and I ordered a glass of zin from an attentive bartender and stared absently at my reflection in the mirror as I sipped it.