Scattershot

EIGHT

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I passed out of the real world, through the portals into Xanadu, at two-fifteen on Wednesday afternoon.

The resort had been built on craggy terrain, among tall redwoods, at the southern end of Monterey County. It was not all that far from the Hearst Castle at San Simeon, which tied off one of the historical references for its name; my steak-eating pal on the Examiner had told me that William Randolph Hearst was the model for the newspaper tycoon in Citizen Kane. Xanadu’s grounds extended out to sheer cliffs that fell away to the Pacific. I had the window rolled down-it was a warm day down here, if a little windy-and as I followed an access road that wound upward past part of the golf course, I could smell the clean salt tang of the sea and hear the faint crash of surf in the distance.

The ride down from San Francisco had been more or less soothing. I had got up early, after not much sleep, and I had been in a foul humor. A call to the Hall of Justice had not helped it any; Eberhardt hadn’t come in yet, but Klein was there and I found out from him that there was nothing new on the Hornback murder. If Lewis Hornback had had a girl friend, he said, they hadn’t been able to dig up any trace of her.

After that I had called Kerry at her apartment and finally made my apologies for the way I’d acted on the phone yesterday. She had accepted them all right and seemed cheerful enough, but I sensed the distance again. She had agreed to have dinner with me tomorrow night, which was something of a relief; I would be able to get a better handle on the situation face to face with her. Still, that vague sense of distance continued to bother me.

So the foul humor had persisted as I left the city and headed south. It lasted until I came over the Santa Cruz Mountains and picked up Highway One. The drive down One, past Monterey and Cypress Bay and along the rim of the ocean, was one of the most scenic in the state: rugged cliffs and promontories, deep canyons, Monterey cypress trees wind-twisted into myriad shapes, the wooded slopes of the Santa Lucia Range and the Los Padres National Forest, the sunlit Pacific stretching away to the horizon. You would have had to be mired in depression not to respond to all that nature-in-the-raw, and I was not that bad off-not yet, anyway. Now, entering Xanadu, I felt a little more optimistic about things, my relationship with Kerry included.

The access road curled among lush redwoods and giant ferns, emerged into a parking area shaped like a bowl. Three-quarters of it was reserved for guest parking; the other quarter was taken up with rows of three-wheeled machines that looked like golf carts, with awnings over them done in pastel ice-cream colors. From what I had been told about Xanadu, the carts were probably used by guests to get from one of the complex’s pleasure domes to another. Exercise was all well and good in its proper place-tennis court, swimming pool, disco-but the rich folk no doubt considered walking up and down hilly terrain a vulgarity.

Beyond where the carts were was a long slope, with a wide path cut into it and a set of stairs alongside that seemed more ornamental than functional. At the top of the slope, partially visible from below, were some of the resort buildings, all painted in pastel colors like the cart awnings. The muted sounds of people at play drifted down on the cool breeze from the ocean.

I put my car into a slot marked Visitors’ Parking. A black guy in a starched white uniform came over to me as I got out. He was about my age, with a lot of gray in his hair, and his name was Horace. Or so it said on the pocket of his uniform, in pink script like the sugar writing on a birthday cake.

He looked at me and I looked at him. I was wearing my best suit, but my best suit was the kind the inhabitants of Xanadu would wear to costume parties or give away to the Salvation Army. But that was okay by Horace. Some people who work at fancy places like this get to be snobs in their own right; not him. His eyes said that I would never make it up that hill over yonder, not for more than a few minutes at a time, but then neither would he, and the hell with it.

I let him see that I felt the same way, which earned me a faint smile in return. “Here on business? “he asked.

“Yes. I’m looking for Lauren Speers.”

“She’s out right now. Took her car a little past one.”

“Do you have any idea when she’ll be back?”

“Depends on how thirsty she gets, I expect.”

“Pardon?”

“The lady drinks,” Horace said and shrugged.

“So I’ve heard.”

“As much as anybody I ever saw,” he said. “She’s a world-champion drinker, that lady.”

“Had she been drinking before she left?”

He nodded. “Martinis. Starts in at eleven every morning, quits at one, sleeps until four. Then it’s Happy Hour. But not today. Today she decided to go out. If I’d seen her in time, I’d have tried to talk her out of driving, but she was in that sports job of hers and gone before I even noticed her.”

“Must be nice to be rich,” I said.

“Yeah,“he said.

“Can you tell me which cottage is hers?”

“Number Forty-one. Straight ahead past the swimming pool. Paths are all marked. Miss Dolan’ll likely be there if you want to wait at the cottage.”

“That would be Bernice Dolan.”

“Yep. Miss Speers’s secretary. She’s writing a book;you know. Miss Speers, I mean.”

“I heard that, too. Do you know what kind of book?”

“All about her life. Ought to be pretty spicy.”

“From what I know about her, I guess it will be.”

“But I’ll never read it,” Horace said. “Bible, now, that’s much more interesting. If you know what I mean.”

I said I knew what he meant. And thanked him for his help. I didn’t offer him any money; if I had, he would have been offended. He would take gratuities from the guests because that was part of his job, but it had already been established that he and I were social equals‘. And that made an exchange of money unseemly.

I climbed the stairs-I wouldn’t have driven one of those cute little carts even if it was allowed, which it wasn’t or Horace would have offered me one-and found my way to the swimming pool. You couldn’t have missed it; it was laid out between the two largest buildings, surrounded by a lot of bright green lawn and flagstone terracing, with a stone-faced outdoor bar at the near end.

Twenty or thirty people in various stages of undress occupied the area. A few of them were in the pool, but most were sitting at wrought-iron tables, being served tall drinks by three white-jacketed waiters. None of the waiters, I noticed, was black.

Nobody paid any attention to me as I passed by, except for a hard-looking thirtyish blonde who undressed me with her eyes-women do it, too, sometimes-and then put my clothes back on and threw me out of her mental bedroom. A fiftyish lone wolf with shaggy looks and a beer belly was evidently not her type.

Past the pool area, where the trees began again, were a pair of paths marked with redwood-burl signs. The one on the left, according to the sign, would take me to Number Forty-one, so I wandered off in that direction. Ten minutes later I was still wandering, uphill now, with Forty-one still nowhere in sight. I was beginning to realize that the fancy little carts were not such an affectation as I had first taken them to be.

I had passed three cottages so far-or the walks that led to three cottages. The buildings themselves were set back some distance from the main path, half-hidden by trees, and were all lavish chalet types with wide porches and pastel-colored wrought-iron trim. Unlike the stairs from the parking area, the wrought iron was just as functional as it was ornamental: the curved bars and scrollwork served as a kind of burglar proofing over the windows. Xanadu may have been a whimsical pleasure resort, but its rulers nonetheless had their defenses up.

Here in the woods it was much cooler, almost cold, because of the ocean breeze and because the afternoon sunlight penetrated only in dappled patches. I was wishing that I’d worn a coat over my suit when I came around a bend and glimpsed a fourth cottage through the redwoods. Another burl sign stood adjacent to the access path, and I could just make out the numerals 41 emblazoned on it.

I took a few more steps toward the sign. Then, from behind me, I heard a sound like that of a lawnmower magnified-one of the carts approaching. I moved off the path as the sound grew louder. A couple of seconds later the thing came around the curve at my back, going at an erratic clip, and shot past me. Inside at the wheel was a redhaired woman wearing white.

The cart veered over to Forty-one’s walk, slowed to a stop, and the redhead got out and hurried toward the cottage. The white garment she wore was a thin coat, buttoned up against the wind, and she had a big straw bag in her right hand; the long red hair streamed out behind her like a sheet of flame. The way she’d handled the cart indicated Lauren Speers was every bit as sloshed as Horace had led me to believe, but she carried herself on her feet pretty well. The serious drinker, male or female, learns how to walk, if not drive, in a straight line.

I called out to her, but she either didn’t hear me or chose to ignore me; she kept on going without breaking stride or even glancing in my direction. I ran the rest of the way to the cottage path, turned in along it. She was already on the porch by then, digging in her bag with her free hand; I could see her through a gap in the fronting screen of trees. She found a key and had it in the lock before I could open my mouth to call to her again. In the next second she was inside, with the door shut behind her.

Well, hell, I thought.

I stopped and spent thirty seconds or so catching my breath. Running uphill had never been one of my favorite activities, even when I was in good physical shape. Then I hauled out the subpoena Adam Brister had given me to serve. And then I started along the path again.

I was twenty yards from the porch, with most of the cottage visible ahead of me, when the gun went off.

It made a flat cracking sound in the stillness, muffled by the cottage walls but distinct enough to be unmistakable. I pulled up, stiffening, the hair bristling like cat’s fur on my neck. There was no second shot, not in the three or four seconds I stood motionless and not when I finally went charging up onto the porch.

I swatted the door a couple of times with the edge of my hand. Nothing happened inside. But after a space there was a low cry and a woman’s voice said querulously, “Bernice? Oh my God- Bernice!” I caught hold of the knob, turned it; it was locked. This was no time to observe the proprieties. I stepped back a pace and slammed the bottom of my shoe against the latch just below the knob.

Metal screeched and wood splinters flew; the door burst open. And I was in a dark room with redwood walls, a beamed ceiling, a fireplace along one wall, rustic furniture scattered here and there. Off to the left was a dining area and a kitchen; off to the right was a short hallway that would lead to the bedrooms and the bath. I saw all of that peripherally. The main focus of my attention was the two women in the room, one of them lying crumpled on a circular hooked rug near the fireplace, the other one standing near the entrance to the hallway. Equidistant between them, on the polished wood floor at the rug’s perimeter, was a small-caliber automatic.

The standing woman was Lauren Speers. She had shed the white coat-it was on the couch with her straw bag-and she was wearing shorts and a halter, both of them white and brief, showing off a good deal of buttery tan skin. She stood without moving, staring down at the woman on the rug, the knuckles of one hand pressing her lips flat against her teeth. Her expression was one of bleary shock, as if she had too much liquor inside her to grasp the full meaning of what had happened here. Or to have registered my violent entrance. Even when I moved deeper into the room, over in front of her, she did not seem to know I was there.

I went for the gun first. You don’t leave a weapon lying around on the floor after somebody has just used it. I picked it up by the tip of the barrel-it was a.25 caliber Beretta and still warm to the touch-and dropped it into my coat pocket. Lauren Speers still didn’t move, still didn’t acknowledge my presence; her eyes were half rolled up in their sockets. And I realized that she had fainted standing up, that it was only a matter of seconds before her legs gave out and she fell.

Before that could happen I put an arm around her waist and half-carried her to the nearest chair, put her into it. She was out, all right; her head lolled to one side. I could smell the stale odor of gin on her breath. The whole room smelled of gin, in fact, as if somebody had been using the stuff for disinfectant.

v The woman on the rug was dead. I knew that even without checking for a pulse; had known it the instant I saw her wide-open eyes and the blood on her blouse beneath one twisted arm. She was in her late twenties, attractive in a regular-featured way, with short black hair and a Cupid’s-bow mouth. Wearing blouse, skirt, open-toed sandals.

I stood staring down at her, the way Speers had.

My stomach felt queasy; a mixture of revulsion and awe had taken a grip on my mind. It was the same reaction I always had to violent death, because it was such an ugliness, such a waste. But there was more to it than that in this case-a resentment of the vagaries of fate, and a kind of fear.

For the second time this week I had stumbled smack into the middle of a homicide.