11th hour

Chapter 21

Conklin held the back door open for Nicole, then followed her out to the patio. They ducked into the tent and Conklin said hello to a tech who was labeling bags of dirt.

“Got booties?” Conklin asked.

The tech handed him a carton of disposable shoe covers and Conklin took two pairs, then handed one pair to Nicole.

A brick path skirted the base of the wall, and once their feet were swaddled in plastic, Nicole and Conklin walked around the shadowy patch of garden.

Conklin focused his attention on Nicole Worley, watched her body language as she told him that she was a biologist and was hoping a teaching job would open in one of the schools within commuting distance of the Ellsworth place.

“My parents are getting older, and it’s better for them if I’m around. I keep them from killing each other — oh, I didn’t mean that literally.”

Conklin smiled, said, “I knew what you meant.”

Nicole slipped into her tour-guide role, talked about Bryce Ellsworth, his five wives and fourteen children, how the house survived the great fire of 1906. She had anecdotes about Prohibition and about Billie Holiday, the famous chanteuse, who’d sung for the Ellsworth family in their own parlor.

As Nicole and Conklin rounded the corner of the lot, Nicole indicated the four six-story houses beyond the wall.

Nicole said, “These houses are high for this area, but Bryce Ellsworth wanted them to balance the height of the main house. He liked symmetry. Notice that there are no windows facing the back garden. This is one of the interesting things about this place. I can’t even see the garden from my flat in number two.”

“What was the point of not having back-facing windows?”

“The first Mrs. Ellsworth was very private. I think it was her idea to keep the help from spying on her when she walked in the garden.”

Conklin looked up at the brick buildings, built at the same time as the Ellsworth house. As Nicole had said, the windows were false, brick outlines with no glass, which made the one real window in the next-to-last building stand out.

“There’s a window on the top floor of number six.”

“Number six has been boarded up for years,” Nicole told him. “I’m pretty sure that window opens onto a stairwell.”

Conklin had gotten what he could from Nicole Worley’s running on about the history of the house and San Francisco. Now he wanted answers.

“Who does the gardening?”

“Ricky someone. I can find out.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Pardon?”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Not currently. Not seriously. No one I’ve brought here.”

“Have any of your friends been hanging out here recently?”

“Inspector Conklin, I’m starting to feel that you’re harassing me.”

“Nicole, would you rather come to the police station and spend a few hours with me and Sergeant Boxer? We can hold you as a material witness.”

Her eyes welled up. “I don’t bring my friends here.”

Conklin pressed on.

“Have you seen anyone on or near the grounds who struck you as out of place?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“What about those star tours? Do the tourists come into the garden?”

“No, and they don’t come into the house either. It’s strictly an outside-the-front-gate lecture series.”

“Thank you, Nicole. I need your contact information.”

Conklin smiled, gave her a pad and a pen. Watched her write, took back the notepad, and handed her his card.

“I’ll need the gardener’s name and number, and if you think of anything, anything, call me anytime.”

“I will certainly do that.”

Conklin nodded at the tech who was photographing one of the grave markers.

“We’ll be here for a while. Until we know who those seven victims are and the circumstances of their deaths, we’ll be turning over every stone.”