An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide (24 page)

Apparently I had all the steadfastness of an alcoholic making his New Year's resolution.

Jake said, “Hello? Did you swoon away at the thought of spending all that money?”

“Er, no. Do you think Newman's really got anything to tell us?”

“I think so, yes. From the few crumbs of information he doled out, I think he's definitely got a story to tell. I don't know if it's worth five hundred bucks, and if you'd like, I could try negotiating with him.”

“What kind of crumbs did he dole out?”

“Nazi treasure.”

For a few stunned seconds I couldn't come up with an answer.

“Did I lose you?” Jake inquired.

“For a minute I thought I heard you say Nazi treasure.”

“I did.”

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Josh Lanyon

“No damn way.” I was totally disgusted. “That's got to be one of the oldest scams in the book. The guy's a con artist. If he doesn't have anything better than that, tell him to forget it.”

That surprised a laugh out of Jake. “Not the reaction I expected.”

“It's ridiculous.”

“I don't know. It's not impossible.”

“Yes, it is.
Hidden Nazi treasure?
Puhleaze. Newman saw us coming a mile away. I can't believe you, of all people, are considering for one minute that this might have credence. The bastard's playing us. Or trying to.”

“He was looking for something in the bookstore.”

That stopped me in my tracks. “So he does admit to trying to burglarize the bookstore?”

“He does. He seems pretty forthright. I get the feeling he's decided five C in hand is worth more than all the legends of Nazi treasure in the bush. Or hidden in the floorboards, in this case.”

I considered. If Newman had confessed to burglary, maybe there was more to this than I thought. “Did you think he was credible?”

“I did. Yeah.”

“All right. Let's do it.”

“Okay. I'll set it up.” Clearly about to sign off.

I interjected quickly, “Jake?”

“Yes?”

“Are you going up to Santa Barbara tomorrow for Hale's funeral?”

The hesitation was loud and clear. “Yes.”

“Could I come along?” I heard the diffidence in my voice. Knew he heard it too.

“If you want to.” He added in that same neutral tone, “You're spending a lot of time traveling in cars this week. Do you think that's a good idea?”

Obviously didn't want me along or he'd have suggested it himself. Not even counting the argument on the way back from Santa Barbara, it had probably been a total pain in the ass having me along the last time. Besides the genius of having forgotten my meds, there was the fact that I couldn't seem to stop picking over the bones of our failed romantic past.

“Probably not.” I tried to sound good-humored about the whole thing, because I was damned if I was going to confirm his belief that my head was screwed on backward. “You'll fill me in on everything?”

“Of course.”

“Good enough. I'll talk to you…maybe tomorrow?”

“Talk to you tomorrow.”

He rang off, clearly too busy to sit around shooting the breeze with me.

I replaced the receiver.

Tomkins
meowed
at me.

“No way,” I said. “I'm the one who set these boundaries to start with. This is
exactly
how I want it.”

Really, what the hell was my problem? Maybe I'd been hanging around Emma too much. I seemed to have developed a mild case of little girl.

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The phone rang. I picked it up.

Jake said, “I've got to leave at six in the morning to get up there in time for the funeral, which would mean picking you up at five forty-five. Can you manage that?”

Inexplicably, I had to work to get that one word out. “Sure.”

“Okay. I'll see you then.”

He disconnected before I could thank him.

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Josh Lanyon

Chapter Twelve

Jake was, as always, on time.

The car pulled up outside the bookstore Thursday morning at the crack of dawn, I slipped inside, and we glided away from the curb.

“Morning.” His gaze was on the rearview. He was dressed for success—or a funeral—in a well-cut dark suit, a crisp white shirt, and a black and blue botanical silk tie. He looked great, and he smelled great. For the first time I noticed he wasn't wearing his wedding ring anymore.

“Morning.”

Sparing me a glance, he commented, “Your nose is sunburned. Find someone to swim with?”

“Lauren drove me out to the house yesterday.”

“It turns out Argyle was right. Newman was hired by a college professor by the name of Louise Reynard to find Stevens after he disappeared.”

“Is Reynard still alive?”

“No.”

“Shame.”

Conversation languished. I admitted knowing that Jake didn't particularly want me along had an inhibiting effect on my normally cheerful self. I resolved to annoy him as little as possible.

We left Pasadena sleeping in the cool morning smog and merged onto the I-210 West, already busy even at this early hour.

As the odometer racked up the miles, Jake threw me another quick glance, his dark brows knitting. “What's the matter?”

“Me? Nothing.”

“You sure? You've barely said a dozen words since you got in the car.”

“Still half asleep, I guess.”

“Why don't you put the seat back and sleep?”

“I'm okay, thanks.”

He let it go.

* * * * *

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Politicos, war heroes, and Hollywood stars all kept each other company in those misty fifty- some acres of grass and trees and stone. John Ireland, who played many a hard-boiled bad guy in films, rested there—as did Vera Hrubá Ralston, who insulted Hitler after winning the silver in the 1936 Olympics. Ronald Colman and Laurence Harvey—Kenneth Rexroth, the poet and essayist who believed in transcendent love. Supposedly Rexroth's was the only grave to face the ocean, which was the kind of trivial information my brain stored by the bushel.

Maybe the early hour explained the lack of attendance. The only other fellow mourner was a woman in an expensive dark pantsuit, Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, and a dark hat. She stood across the freshly dug grave from us. It would be hard to say who was more curious: her or us.

The service was generic and short. As the pastor read from Psalms, my attention wandered.

It was probably one of the most beautiful graveyards I'd seen: acres of palm trees and ornate tombstones—and that spectacular view of the ocean with the silver and green morning tide rolling in.

Unobtrusively, I studied the woman across from us. It was hard to tell what she looked like beneath the hat and the sunglasses. Despite her trim figure, she wasn't young. Maybe midsixties.

…As far as the east is from the west,

So far has He put our transgressions from us.

The Lord has established His throne in heaven,

And His kingdom rules over all.

Bless the Lord, all you His angels,

You mighty in strength, who do His bidding.

A pretty innocuous send-off for Dan Hale. In the back of my mind I kept hearing Martha Tilton singing, “We kiss and the angels sing and leave their music ringing in my heart…”

When the pastor had finished his reading, he asked if any of us would like to share our personal memories of Dan Hale. We unanimously declined.

That was pretty much it. The pastor offered up another prayer. Jake bent his head, his expression sober. He'd had a lot of practice at gravesides, and I knew he was taking as careful stock of the woman across from us as I was—only less obviously.

The service ended, the woman placed a small bouquet of red roses on the casket, shook hands with the pastor, and walked away. Poised as a fashion model on the runway, she picked her way through the gravestones and wet grass.

Jake started after her. I put a hand on his arm. “Jake, I think that's Jinx Stevens.”

He threw me a startled look, nodded. He caught up to her quickly.

I heard him say, “Ms. Stevens?”

She stumbled in the grass, and he reached to steady her. “I'm sorry?” Her face was unreadable behind the glasses. Her voice was alarmed.

I joined them as he stated in that calm, authoritative way, “Excuse me, ma'am. You're Jinx Stevens, aren't you?”

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Josh Lanyon

She opened her mouth. I was sure she was going to deny it. I think Jake's cool certainty—

the cop vibe—undid her. The strong, fierce line of her body seemed to soften. She seemed smaller, older.

She answered in a husky contralto, “Stevens was my maiden name.” She didn't offer her married name.

Jake introduced himself and me.

“You're private investigators?” The alarm was back. “Who are you working for?”

I said, “Actually, he's the PI, and he's working for me.”

“Working for
you
?”

Jake reiterated, “We just want to ask you a couple of questions, ma'am.”

“About?”

“Jay Stevens. Your brother.”

There was another inward struggle. I wished she'd take off the damned glasses. “What about him?”

I tried to break it gently, but her attitude was hard to read. “Did you know that Jay's body was recently recovered?”

The impenetrable black glasses faced me. She said at last, “English…you own the bookstore where they found him.”

The business owner in me felt obliged to clarify. “He wasn't in the bookstore, but…yes.”

Jake said, “So you did know his body had been recovered?”

“I knew.”

Yet she had made no attempt to claim his body. That seemed peculiar by any standard.

“The police have been asking for anyone with information on Stevens to come forward.”

Jake reverting to form.

She said stiffly, “I don't have any information on Jay's death.”

“But—”

She cut me off. “I know what you think. Just take it for granted, you're wrong.”

Few people were able to take that for granted.

Jinx added, “I loved my brother. I never loved anyone more. But my life now is complicated.”

Oh.
Complicated
. I didn't say it. I left it to Jake to say. “Okay. We can respect that. What can you tell us about Jay?”

“I don't understand?” The black shades turned his way. “Are you—Why do you want to know? Surely after all this time? Fifty years?”

“There's no statute of limitations on murder.”

“Murder.” She repeated the word, but not as though she was shocked or surprised by it.

More…trying it on for size. “It
was
murder?”

“You must have suspected that something bad had happened to him. You went to the police after he disappeared.”

She nodded. “Yes. I knew Jay didn't run out on us. That was never his style.” She considered us. “How is this your business? You're not the police.”

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“No. But the police are giving me a hard time because your brother's remains were found on my property. I hired Mr. Riordan to look into his death.”

“What can you possibly hope to discover after all this time?”

I shrugged.

“How will it change anything?”

“I don't know if it will change anything.”

“So it's simply curiosity?”

I didn't have a real answer for her. Curiosity
was
part of it, but it wasn't the only reason I wanted answers. Nor was I genuinely afraid of police harassment. I looked at Jake. He seemed to be waiting for my response too. “I guess I feel a responsibility to Jay.”

“
Why?
Why should you?”

“Because what happened to your brother was wrong. Because murder is wrong. And…I know about it. And knowing about it, it would be wrong to walk away.”

“You're a real weirdo,” she said.

She turned to walk away, but she was headed for the chapel, not the cemetery gates. We followed her through the pines and majestic cypress, past the small though elaborate family mausoleums. Jake said under his breath, “Every once in a while I think you'd have made a good cop.”

Inside the chapel, it was dark and cool and private. Jinx slid into a pew and began to pray.

Jake stood at the back, leaning against the wall, waiting patiently. I sat down in a nearby pew and looked around. The chapel was built in 1926 and designed by George Washington Smith, a Santa Barbara architect who was interred in one of the walls. I studied the surprisingly contemporary ceiling frescoes—the garlands of lilies and peonies, the nuns and monks with their candles and serene faces.

Jinx finished her prayers and stood up. She said to me, “All right. I'll tell you what you want to know. It's all over now anyway.”

I glanced at Jake. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

We followed her outside. The fog was lifting. It was going to be a beautiful day.

Jinx lit a cigarette, took a few impatient puffs. “I adored Jay. Everyone did.”

Not everyone, clearly. I didn't point that out.

She added, “But he was a…a scamp. Like the song.
Exactly
like the song.”

“Song?” Jake inquired.

I offered, “From
Lady and the Tramp
. 'He's a Tramp' by Peggy Lee.”

“That's it. We used to do that number.” Jinx's smile was reminiscent. She took another quick, almost-guilty drag on her cigarette.

“This was back when you were singing with the Moonglows?”

“That's right. We used to play a regular gig at Danny's.” She glanced back at the cluster of trees sheltering Hale's plot. “Danny owned a club in Malibu called the Tides.”