K is for Killer (Kinsey Millhone 11)

I laid out the canceled checks like a hand of solitaire. At the bottom, under "Memo," she'd dutifully written in the purpose of the payment: groceries, manicure, haircut, linens, sundries. There was something touching about the care she'd taken. She hadn't known she'd be dead by the time these checks came back. She hadn't known her last meal would be her last, that every action she'd taken and each endeavor she'd engaged in were part of some finite number that would soon run out. Sometimes the hardest part of my job is the incessant reminder of the fact we're all trying so assiduously to ignore: we are here temporarily… life is only ours on loan.

I put down my pencil and eased my feet up on the desk, rocking back on my swivel chair. The room seemed dark, and I reached over and flipped on the lamp on the bookshelf behind me. Among Lorna's possessions, there was no address book, no calendar, no appointment book of any kind. That might have sparked my curiosity, but I wondered if it didn't speak to Lorna's caution about her clients. Danielle had told me she was very tight-lipped, and I felt this discretion might extend to the keeping of written notes as well.

I reached for the manila envelope that held the crime scene photographs. I sorted through until I found the angles that showed the papers on her table and countertop. I pulled the light over closer, but there was no way to see if there was an appointment book visible. I glanced at my watch. I was dog-tired. I was also bored and hungry, but I could feel my senses quicken as the darkness gathered depth. Maybe I was turning into a vampire or a werewolf, repelled by sunlight, seduced by the moon.

I got up and shrugged into my jacket, leaving Lorna's papers on my desk. What was bothering me? I scanned the desktop. A fact… something obvious… had passed through my hands. The problem with being tired is that your brain doesn't work so hot. Idly I paused and moved a batch of papers aside, leafing through the forms. I looked at the holographic will and Janice's supporting statement. I didn't think that was it. In theory, it would seem self-serving that Janice was in a position to attest to the legitimacy of a will from which she largely benefited. However, the truth of it was that if Lorna had died with no will at all, the result would have been the same.

I picked up the bank notices and shuffled through them again, pausing when I got to the statement from the bank in Simi. The interest was minimal since she'd closed the account in April. Before that, she'd maintained a balance of roughly twenty thousand dollars. I looked at the closing date. The zero balance showed as of Friday, April 20. The day before she died.

I pulled out the files Lieutenant Dolan had given me. The personal property inventory mentioned all manner of items found on the premises, including Lorna's handbag and her wallet, containing all her credit cards and a hundred bucks in cash. Nowhere was there mention of twenty thousand dollars. I took the notice with me to the Xerox room around the corner, made a copy of the statement, and stuck it in my handbag. Serena Bonney had been the first person on the scene. I checked my notes for her father's address, packed up Lorna's papers with the crime scene photographs, and took the banker's box with me down the stairs to my car.

The address I'd picked up for Clark Esselmann turned out to be a sizable estate, maybe seven or eight acres surrounded by a low sandstone wall, beyond which the rolling lawns had been erased by the dark. Landscaping floods washed light across the exterior of the house, which was constructed in the French country style, meaning long and low with a steeply pitched roof. Mullioned windows formed a series of staunch yellow grids along the facade, while the tall fieldstone chimneys jutted up like black towers against the charcoal sky. Low-voltage lights defined the foliage and walkways, allowing me a fair sense of what it must have looked like by day. Interior lights winking in a small structure some distance from the main house suggested a guest house or perhaps maid's quarters.

When I reached the main entrance, I could see electronic gates. A key pad and intercom were planted at expensive-car window height. Naturally my VW left me disadvantaged, and in order to buzz I had to pull on the emergency brake, open the car door, and torque my whole body, risking vicious back spasms. I pushed the button, wishing I could order a Big Mac and fries.

A disembodied voice came in response. "Yes?"

"Oh, hi. I'm Kinsey Millhone. I have some house keys that belong to Serena Bonney."

There was no reply. What did I expect, a gasp of astonishment? Half a second later the two halves of the gate began to swing back in silence. I eased my VW up the circular driveway, lined with junipers. The entry was cobblestone, with a separate lane leading to the left and on around to the rear. I caught a glimpse of garages, like a line of horse stables. Just to be contrary, I bypassed the front door and drove around the side of the house to a brightly lighted gravel parking pad in back. The four-car garage was linked to the main house by a long, covered breezeway, beyond which I could see a short stretch of lawn intersected by a man-made reflecting pond, submerged lights tucked among its rocks. All across the property, lighting picked out significant landscape features: ornamental shrubs and tree trunks appearing like oils painted on black velvet. On the clear black surface of the pond, water lilies grew in clumps, breaking up a perfect inverted image of the house.