Nemesis (19 page)

Call number three went to Gateway Insurance, to determine if Vincent Canaday had returned yet. Good thing I called instead of driving all the way back to Martinez; he not only hadn't come back, he wasn't going to. The woman I spoke to told me he'd called in a few minutes ago to say that he was “coming down with something” and was going straight home. “He really didn't sound well at all,” she said.

One more call to my home.

Still no answer.

*   *   *

Vincent Canaday lived in Lafayette, a former Mexican land grant that had evolved into another of the moneyed communities strung out along and among the tree-studded hills north of Danville. The GPS I'd reluctantly installed some time back, but had come to rely on, led me on a twisty upward path southwest of downtown and finally onto a street of large homes on woodsy lots.

Canaday's place was a kind of bastardized Spanish style, all jutting angles and rounded corners, set back behind a six-foot-high, tile-topped wall and fronted by a tall heritage oak. There were two entrances, one for vehicles and the other for walk-ins, both made of arched wood set into wall pillars so that you couldn't see inside from the street. The main entrance gate wasn't locked; I opened it, stepped into a tiled patio. The oak stood in the middle of it, encircled by a low stucco wall, and there were yucca trees and cactus and some other plants along the house walls. At one time the patio area must have been pretty nice; not so much now. Some of the tiles were cracked, with weeds growing up through them, and the plantings had a neglected look. When people like Canaday are short on money, gardeners are among the first to be let go.

The steps leading up to the front door were of stucco inlaid with bits and pieces of multicolored tile. The bottom step had a jagged crack running through it and some of the tiles there were missing. I went up and thumbed the bell, waited, thumbed it again, waited, leaned on it a third time. Nobody came to open either the door or its squared-off, gated peephole.

If Canaday was home, he wasn't dealing with visitors.

*   *   *

In the car I called home again. And this time, to my considerable relief, Kerry answered on the third ring.

“I tried to get you a couple of times earlier,” I said. “Were you busy, or—?”

“Checking up on me?”

“No, no…”

“Yes, you were.” But she didn't sound upset about it. “I wasn't here when you called. I went out for a walk.”

“A walk?” I said, surprised. “By yourself?”

“Well, there's nobody else here. Yes, by myself.”

“Where'd you go?”

“Not far. Up and down the block. I decided it was time … past time I stopped hiding like an animal in a cave and started putting my life back together.”

“Good. Good!” It was all I could think of to say.

“Going out alone was easier than I thought it would be,” she said. “I'm not going to rush it, but … I'll be myself again eventually. I mean that.”

“I never doubted it.”

“Just do me one favor, will you?”

“Name it.”

“No more calls to check up. I'll do what I have to do, you do what you have to do. Like before. Like always with us.”

“Like always,” I agreed.

*   *   *

Orinda is Lafayette's immediate neighbor to the north, Walnut Creek its immediate neighbor on the south. Two choices, then: another swing by Ostrander's Nursery and Landscaping, or a visit to Riteway Gutter Installers. I wanted a conversation with Hank Avery, but I don't like bracing a potentially hostile individual in his workplace; and Avery would be hostile for sure if he'd talked to his mother since my visit this morning. Besides, his work as an installer likely meant he'd be out somewhere on a job. So I opted for Orinda, mainly to kill time until Avery's workday ended; I didn't expect the nursery to be open.

But it was, the gates standing wide. And both Ostranders were there, inside a cubbyhole office going over some papers spread out on a desk. If the bleak look of them was any indication, the “business appointment” they'd had earlier today had not gone well.

Ostrander's first response when I showed him my credentials and told him why I was there: “Can't you people leave me alone? I don't know anything about Verity's murder—I don't want to know anything about it.”

“I didn't say that you did.”

“Then why come to me? She got what she deserved, that's all I have to say.”

“Your sister said the same thing.”

“Grace? You been bothering her, too?”

“Information, Mr. Ostrander. I'll talk to anyone I have to to get it. She told me some things I'd like clarified.”

“What things?”

“For one, your relationship with Hank Avery.”

Ostrander frowned, scrubbed a hand through sparse sandy hair. “Who the hell is Hank Avery?”

I refreshed his memory. “When did you last see him?”

“I only saw him that one time he showed up to tell me what I already knew.”

“He seem surprised that you knew? Or that the affair had been going on as long as it had?”

“No. He knew as well as I did what she was.”

“And hated her for what he believed she'd done to his brother.”

“Had cause, didn't he?”

“What do you think of the notion that your ex-wife was responsible for Jason Avery's death?”

“Sure she was responsible. One way or another.”

“Does that mean you think she might have been responsible for him drowning? Was she capable of a thing like that?”

“She was capable of anything if she wanted it badly enough.”

“Doesn't quite answer my question. There's some evidence to indicate she was given to violent outbursts. Would you agree?”

“Hell, yes,” Ostrander said. “Mainly she'd just cut you up with her lies, but if she got mad enough, didn't get her way, she could be a hellcat.”

“Did you tell that to Hank Avery?”

“I might have. I don't remember.”

“How about him? He strike you as the violent type?”

“Acted tough, said he'd like to see her get hers, but she was still walking around two years later. Maybe something set him off again, I don't know. Why don't you go ask him?”

“I will.”

“And that man she was sleeping with all those years.” This from Karen Ostrander, who'd been standing close to her husband and frowning at me the entire time we'd been talking. “He might have had reason to want her dead.”

“He's on my list,” I said. Then, to Ostrander, “Do you know Vincent Canaday?”

“No.”

“Never had any dealings with him?”

“Never even met him. No reason to before I found out he was screwing Verity, sure as hell none afterward.”

“Except maybe to accuse him.”

“I didn't want anything to do with him. Or her. Still don't. Are we done here now? I have work to do.”

“One more question. Where were you Saturday evening?”

His mouth quirked sardonically. “Is that when Verity was killed?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that's just dandy. I was on a landscaping job until six that afternoon, and home from six-thirty on. Karen will vouch for that. So will two of our neighbors who came over around eight to play cards and stayed until eleven. You want their names?”

“No. Not necessary.”

“So you'll leave us alone from now on?” his wife asked.

I said, “You won't see me again,” and meant it.

Scratch Scott Ostrander off the list of possibles.

 

20

I'd asked Ostrander if Hank Avery was the violent type. I had an answer to that sooner than expected, up close and personal.

My timing was good on the return trip to Martinez: I arrived at the Avery home just as a somewhat battered brown pickup was pulling into the driveway. I swung over to the curb in front, climbed out just as the pickup's driver emerged. Barrel-shaped guy with a bushy mustache and an aggressive stance. He watched me through narrowed eyes as I cut across a corner of the weedy lawn to the driveway.

“Hank Avery?”

Now that he'd got a good look at me, his face clouded up and the eyes radiated anger. “You're the guy come around hassling my mother this morning.”

“So she told you about our talk. I thought she might.”

“You got a lot of balls, coming back.” He took a step toward me, his hands opening and closing by his sternum like a boxer warming up. “Haul your ass outta here and don't come around again.”

“There's no need for belligerence, Mr. Avery. I only want a few words with you—”

“I don't want no words with
you
. Fuck off.”

“Look, I've got a job to do and I intend to do it whether you like it or not. I don't have anything against you, but if you have nothing to hide—”

“That's right, nothing to hide.” Another step, this one close enough so that his chest nearly touched mine and I could smell his breath. Mint over whiskey: he'd had a drink or three somewhere on the way home. I didn't move, matching his unblinking gaze.

“Then you don't have anything to fear from me.”

“Fear? From an old fart like you? Jesus Christ! I ain't gonna tell you again. Fuck off.”

“Or what? You'll call the police?”

“I don't need no police to deal with assholes.”

“Does your mother know you use language like that?”

His face was blood-dark now. He said, snarling the words, “I don't give a shit if you're old, I had enough of you,” and banged the heel of one hand into my chest. Not a tap, a blow hard enough to hurt and to stagger me into a backward two-step shuffle.

Well, it had been a long day and I was tired and in no mood to be forbearing. I didn't mind the old fart, old man stuff too much—by most standards that's just what I am—but I'm neither feeble nor senile and I damn well did mind being punched by a pugnacious stranger. When I regained my balance I came right back at Avery, jabbed both palms into his chest, and shoved with as much force as I could muster. He wasn't expecting retaliation; the shove sent him pinwheeling backward off balance. His upper body thudded into the pickup's door, and when he caromed off, his feet slid out from under him and down he went, hard, on his chunky ass.

He sat there looking stunned for about five seconds. Then he made a snorting noise like an enraged bull, scrambled to his feet, started toward me again.

“I wouldn't,” I said.

Something in my voice, my expression, the way I was standing brought him up short. He glared at me, his hands flexing open and closed again. I glared back. Standoffs like this were my meat; I'd been through too many to count or remember. This one lasted for fifteen seconds or so, during which time his aggressiveness gave way to a surly petulance. The old fart had embarrassed him, wounded his thorny male pride—not that he would ever admit it to himself or anyone else. But the fact was, he didn't want anything more to do with me; he wanted to go inside and put salve on his ego-wound by telling Momma how he'd got rid of me.

His parting shot wasn't much, about what I expected: “The hell with it and the hell with you, man. You come around here again, I damn well will call the cops on you.”

And he was gone, and thirty seconds later so was I. But not until I noted and wrote down the license plate number of Avery's pickup.

*   *   *

I heard from Tamara while I was still within the Martinez city limits. And as usual, I pulled over to take the call. Most Californians seem defiantly determined to ignore the laws against talking and texting on hand-held cell phones while driving, but I'm not one of them. Laws aren't always good laws for a good reason, but this one was. Tamara, Runyon, and Alex Chavez all had those hands-free Bluetooth devices in their vehicles; so did Kerry, who kept trying to convince me to follow suit. I kept resisting. I can be stubborn sometimes where change is concerned, particularly when it involves technology. For the present, the GPS unit was as far as I was willing to go.

The only problem with pulling over in this instance was that there was a solid line of cars parked along the curb and I had to drive three more blocks before I found a space. The damn phone kept yammering at me, and when I finally got parked and grabbed for it, it slipped out of my hand and clattered onto the floor on the passenger side. I leaned over to reach for it, and it squirted under the seat. It took a couple more fumbling tries to get hold of it and haul it out. I growled a hello.

“Hey,” Tamara said, “don't bite my head off.”

“Sorry. I dropped the phone. Sometimes these bloody things are more trouble than they're worth.”

She let me hear one of her wry little chuckles. “No chance of you ever becoming a nomophobe.”

“A what?”

“Nomophobe. People with an irrational fear of being separated from their cell phones. Some of 'em even sleep with their phones to make sure they don't get lost or misplaced.”

My God.

“Anyhow,” she said, “I couldn't get much on Canaday's relationship with the insurance companies he represents. You know how close-mouthed they can be about their employees. Same with agency reps. But it's not a dead end yet. We've done business with one of the companies, Western Maritime and Life, and I've got a contact in their personnel department. I talked her into doing some checking for me.”

“How soon will she get back to you?”

“Probably not until tomorrow. You get anything out of Canaday?”

“Haven't talked to him yet. He didn't come back to his office, called in and said he was sick. But if he went home, he's not answering his doorbell. What kind of car does he drive, do you know?”

“Let's see … Yeah. Chrysler Town and Country, two years old. Tan, four-door.”

“License plate number?”