Crazybone

5

Back in horse country again. Parked in front of the Rincon Riding Academy, waiting for Emily Hunter, watching the activity in the block-square complex. Horses everywhere — horses on my mind.

Noble steed. Cay use, bronc, bangtail, hayburner, crowbait. Grace and speed on a racetrack; maker and loser, all unknowing, of bettors’ fortunes. Work animals, like cattle and oxen. Companion animals, same pet class as cats and dogs according to the proponents of a victorious proposition on last year’s state ballot to “recognize horses as an important part of California’s heritage that deserve protection from those who would slaughter them for food for human consumption.” Steaks, chops, and roasts to the unfussy palates of Europeans and Japanese, the main markets for horsemeat. Even a taxidermist’s delight — Roy Rogers’ taxidermist anyway.

Horses are a lot of different things to a lot of different people, to some of them passionately so, but I was not one of the multitude. Strictly neutral on the subject, although I’d voted for the proposition because I don’t like to see any animal suffer inhumane treatment for any reason. Horses themselves, though, I can take or leave alone and mostly I prefer the latter. For one very good reason.

The noble steed is a smelly bugger.

Proof of this was borne on the warm afternoon breeze, a pungent combination of manure, urine, sweat, dust, and harness leather from the twenty or so cayuses boarded at the Rincon Riding Academy. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant; the problem with it was pervasiveness. The smell got inside your nose and sinus cavities and stayed there. The horsey set obviously didn’t mind, probably got so used to the aroma after a while they didn’t even notice it. I always noticed it, even at a distance; up close and personal it was twice as potent. I hoped Emily wouldn’t want me to go inside the cavernous riding barn with her. If I had to do that, the scent of horse would not only go home with me but would no doubt linger for some time. Even Kerry would smell like a Kentucky Derby candidate, which would severely inhibit our sex life...

A young girl on a bicycle came along the road from the opposite direction and turned in at the academy’s gate. Emily’s size and age, but not Emily. I glanced at my watch. Almost twenty past three. She was a little late, not that that had to mean anything.

I shifted position and thought about putting the window up. Wouldn’t have done much good; the equine effluvium had taken up residence inside the car. Besides, it was a warm day and I liked the feel of the breeze on my face.

Half a dozen kids and an older woman, all of them in riding togs and mounted on black-and-brown horses, filed out of the barn into an outdoor arena. I watched them ride around in there — walk, trot, walk, trot. Fascinating. Like watching a group of prisoners in an exercise yard, except that this bunch seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Three twenty-five. And still no Emily.

I was beginning to get twitchy. Any number of things could have held her up — if she was coming. She might have changed her mind; kids can be mercurial, even serious-minded kids like Emily Hunter. That wouldn’t be half as bad as her mother having found out about the phone call and the planned meeting. The quick way Emily bad said good-bye yesterday... it could’ve been because her mother walked in on her.

The young equestrians and their instructor kept walking and trotting. And I kept twitching.

Three-thirty.

Three thirty-five.

She wasn’t coming. No doubt of it by then, but I stayed put anyway. It was almost four before I called it quits and started the car. The horse smell went away with me, just as I’d known it would.

This being Thursday, Anita Purcell Fine Arts was open for business. Not that they were doing any when I walked in; the place was empty except for a twentyish russet-haired woman sitting at a desk, paging through a catalogue. Either Anita Purcell was very choosy, or fine arts were currently at a premium: the gallery’s display stock was on the skimpy side, so much so that the big, white-walled room had an incomplete look, as if Ms. Purcell were in the process of moving in or moving out. Half a dozen large oils and watercolors, the same number of smaller paintings, a couple of marble sculptures, a grouping of pottery and another of porcelain figurines — that was all there was. The pottery layout was of Sheila Hunter s distinctive blue- and green-glazed, black-design items, and at that there were less than a dozen of them.

The woman hopped to her feet, smiling and eager, as if I were the first potential customer in a long while. She had sea-green eyes, and when I looked into them I felt a little sad. No there there. Like so many individuals you encounter these days, of all types and dispositions. Genetic pod people capable of superficial thought and basic emotions, existing in personal spaces that were dimly lit and mostly empty. The dumbing down of America not only continues, it seems to be approaching epidemic proportions.

She was not Anita Purcell, of course; her name was Gretchen Kiley, she was Ms. Purcell’s niece, and she was minding the store while her aunt was away at an auction in Los Angeles. She knew Sheila Hunter, oh, yes, but not very well, and wasn’t it a terrible thing about her husband? She guessed Mrs. Hunter and her aunt were friends, and no, she didn’t know any of Mrs. Hunter’s other friends. Why was I asking? I told her I was conducting a routine investigation on behalf of Jack Hunter’s insurance company. Then I took a small dyer because I’d run out of direct questions.

“Does your aunt have any friends, artists, customers named Karen?” I asked.

“Karen?” Blank look. “Uh, why do you want to know that?”

“It pertains to my investigation.”

“Oh, it does? Well, I can’t think of anyone. I don’t know that I should— Oh, wait. Someone named Karen that Mrs. Hunter knows, too, is that what you mean?”

“That’s right.”

Ms. Kiley gnawed at a well-shaped upper lip. “About a year ago I overheard Aunt Anita and Mrs. Hunter talking about different kinds of art. I mean, I wasn’t eavesdropping or anything, I just happened to be here while they were talking. Aunt Anita said she wished she could get some really good stained glass and Mrs. Hunter said she knew someone who made some. A stained-glass artist.”

“Someone named Karen.”

“I think so. I think that was the name.”

“Did she mention a last name?”

Ms. Kiley cudgeled her memory; the effort made her frown and chew on her lip again. “No, I don’t think so. Anyway, I can’t remember if she did.”

“Did she happen to say where Karen lives?”

“Up the coast. That’s right, she said ‘Karen has a studio up the coast.’ ”

“Is that all? No town or specific area?”

“No. She stopped right after she said that.”

“How do you mean, stopped?”

“All of a sudden. You know, the way you do when somebody interrupts you.”

Or the way you do when you’re sorry you let something slip. “Did she say anything else about Karen? That she was related to her, for instance?”

“Related? No, I’d remember that.”

“Did your aunt seem interested in seeing some of Karen’s stained glass?”

“Yes, she did. Mrs. Hunter said Karen was very busy and had outlets for all her work, but she’d tell her and maybe she’d send some things down for Aunt Anita to look at.”

“Did Karen ever follow through?”

“Send anything, you mean? I guess not, because we don’t have any stained glass, at least I haven’t seen any. You’ll have to ask my aunt.”

“I’ll do that,” I said. “When will she be back?”

“On Sunday.” Ms. Kiley’s sunny smile reappeared. “Is there anything I can show you before you leave? We have some really nice pieces of Mrs. Hunter’s if you’re into pottery.”

“No, thanks. I couldn’t afford it.”

“Well,” she said, “do you want me to tell Aunt Anita you stopped by?”

“Not necessary. I’ll surprise her.”

Ms. Kiley nodded, smiling. She was still standing there, still smiling, when I went out.

The Emerald Hills Country Club was just what you’d expect to find in an affluent enclave like Greenwood. Walled, pillared, gated, manicured, tree-shaded, and overlain with a mossy patina of rustic charm, snooty exclusivity, and very old money. A long drive flanked by poplars led in from a road that ran along the base of the hills. None of the cars in the two-tiered parking area where the drive ended was older than five years or cost much less than I made in a year. Mercedes and BMWs predominated; I spotted a Ferrari, an Aston-Martin, even a Rolls. The scattering of Detroit products seemed almost out of place. Nobody around here paid much attention to the Buy American slogans, it seemed.

The main building was of native stone; I judged its age to be close to the century mark. It had an English manor house look, though some turrets and ramparts and maybe a tower or two were all it would’ve needed for a castle effect. Behind it to the right I could see outbuildings and some of the greens and fairways, ponds and sandtraps, of the golf course. The grass out there was of such a dazzlingly bright and healthy hue, the grounds keepers might have been giving it daily injections of chlorophyll.

I found a place to park in the designated visitors area on the lower tier. From force of habit I locked the car when I got out, and then smiled wryly to myself when I realized it. Nobody here was going to steal anything out of an old bolt-bucket like mine. If any of the staff or patrons even looked at it twice, it would be to wonder what Emerald Hills was coming to, letting such shoddy merchandise clutter up the grounds.

Well-worn stone steps led up to a wraparound veranda and a double-door entrance. Inside was a security desk with a discreet placard on it requesting that all members and visitors sign in. A beefy guy in a white polo shirt with Emerald Hills stitched over the pocket looked me over and asked with perfect grammar and diction whom I was there to see. He knew I wasn’t a member and didn’t belong in such a rarified atmosphere, and it showed in his face; employees in places like this can be even bigger elitists than the patrons. Snobs by association. But I was respectable enough in my suit and tie not to be either an anarchist or a tree-hugging rabble-rouser, so when I gave him Trevor Smith’s name he nodded and said, “Would you please sign the visitor’s book, sir,” with the faintest emphasis on the last word. I was tempted to put down somebody else’s name — Harry Bridges, for instance, a true rabble-rouser in his day — but I resisted the impulse. It would’ve been a feeble and petty joke, and he wouldn’t have gotten it anyway. Bridges was long dead and so were his longshoremen who’d taken part in the Bloody Thursday labor-management riots in ’34, and people nowadays have no sense of history. Except for musty relics like me a stone’s throw from being history ourselves.

I walked through the lobby, past entrances to bar and restaurant, a sign that said Ballroom, people in golf outfits and expensive casual wear, older couples in dresses and suits. All the faces were WASP; the only ethnics you were likely to find at Emerald Hills were behind-the-scenes staff members. It was like walking through a small, fancy resort hotel fifty years ago. And I felt as out of place there as a puckered old hound in a kennel full of groomed and pampered show dogs.

Another arrow sign pointed the way to the pro shop. It led me outside to the rear, past a crowded terrace overlooking the links and a bank of tennis courts. Nobody was on the courts and not many were driving or putting or riding around in awninged carts: it was the early cocktail hour, the one time of day that was likely to be more important to the country club set than their sport. The pro shop was part of a smaller stone building nearby, in the center of a pair of wings that would house the men’s and women’s locker rooms.

Inside I found careful displays of clubs and bags and balls, clothing and other items — and a thin middle-aged woman in golf togs who was studying a packaged wristband with a puzzled expression, as if the writing on the package was runic symbols instead of English. Another There-challenged individual, maybe. I waited quietly for a couple of minutes. Nobody else put in an appearance, so I asked the woman if Trevor Smith was around. She barely glanced at me as she said, “He’ll be back soon, I’m sure.” The wristband package was clearly an object of much greater interest to her than a craggy stranger in an off-the-rack suit.

I wandered over and looked at a rack of expensive irons and woods. Golf is one of those games that inspire grand passion or grand indifference, and I was firmly in the latter group. I could understand its appeal on an intellectual level, but I never could connect with it emotionally — maybe because I’m not coordinated enough to be any good at the game. The one time I’d let somebody talk me into trying to learn it, it had taken me a week to get over the damage to my ego.

Another couple of minutes, and the little tinkly bell over the door sounded again. But it wasn’t Trevor Smith; it was a second middle-aged woman, obviously a friend of die wristband lady because she said, “There you are, Patty.” She likewise paid no attention to me, beyond the same kind of cursory glance I’d gotten from the other one.

“I can’t decide if I should buy this band or not,” Patty said. “It’s supposed to be the best, but it gave Ellen Conway a rash. What do you think, Joan?”

“Why don’t you ask Trevor?”

“I intend to, if he ever gets back.”

“I thought you’d gone up to the Greens Room. You did say you were thirsty.”

“I am, God knows. Are the others still there?”

“Waiting for us. Guess who else is still there, staked out at the bar.”

“Who? Oh, you mean Dale.”

“Drowning herself in gin, as usual. She hasn’t drawn a sober breath since the accident. You’d think she’d have come to terms with it by now.”

“You’d think so.”

“I mean, it was terrible what happened to poor Jack Hunter, but their little affair hadn’t been going on very long, and anyway it didn’t seem that serious. Did you think it was that serious?”

They might have forgotten about me, if my presence had ever really registered on either of them, or maybe they were the kind of catty gossips who didn’t care who happened to overhear them. In any event, they had my full attention now.

“No,” Patty said. “Just another of her flings, that’s what everyone thought.”

“My God, do you suppose she was in love with him?”

“If she was, it was strictly one-sided. Jack would never have left Sheila, no matter how much she played around.”

“I don’t see Dale leaving Frank, either, do you? As much as money and position mean to her.”

“No, but if she knows what’s good for her, she’ll stop all this public lushing and get a grip. Frank’s no fool. Word will get back to him, if it hasn’t already, and he can add two and two as easily as anyone else. You know him — he won’t put up with any sort of obvious nonsense.”

“Do you think we should talk to her? Would it do any good?”

“The only person Dale Cooney listens to is herself. If you ask me, the thing to do...”

I didn’t hear what Patty thought was the thing to do. I didn’t much care, for one thing, and for another I was on my way out the door. Trevor Smith could wait. Right now Dale Cooney seemed a potentially better bet.