Serpentine

Chapter 44

We hadn’t told her about the box.

Finding it hadn’t resulted from ace detective work during the search of the house Du Galoway and Martha Dee Ensler had shared for twelve years. It filled the middle drawer of the nightstand where her medications sat.

Fifteen inches long, a foot wide, hardwood covered in genuine crocodile hide dyed green. A bilious shade slightly lighter than the bedcovers and the serpentine necklace.

Milo said, “Reptiles. No comment, too easy.”

The interior of the box was lined in amber velvet. On the inside lid was the incised gold stamp of a luxury goods store in Brentwood, long defunct.

The contents, like the house, neat and organized.

Chronological order.

At the bottom was the Lolita article from Dark Detective protected by a plastic bag. On top of that, two similarly shielded articles from The Jefferson Parish Times in Metairie, Louisiana, and the Houston Chronicle, both brief accounts of homicides stingy on details.

Sharing space in that bag were a set of silver and turquoise cuff links and a half-used matchbook from The C’mon Inn, Bissonnet Street, Houston.

The victims were middle-aged men, a salesman and an accountant, found shot to death in their cars on the outskirts of town. The first crime had occurred when Martha Ensler was nineteen, the second two years later, making her release from the girl’s reformatory at eighteen likely.

“Getting right back in practice,” said Milo.

The next trophy was the Pasadena Star-News article on Arlette Des Barres’s fatal horse tumble. Here, someone had annotated in the margin. A single word in red ink, the kind of ragged cursive that results from inadequate schooling.

After that: the L.A. Times account of a dead woman burned in a car on Mulholland Drive.

Nothing for five years and three months, when the San Francisco Chronicle reported the shooting deaths of a well-to-do couple, both physicians, in the book-lined den of their Orinda, California, house. A trove of jewelry and art, taken along with cash and bearer bonds from a safe.

The victims had been last seen having cocktails in the company of another “well-dressed, middle-aged” couple, as yet unidentified.

Milo did follow up on that one. Still open.

Four years and eleven months after that was a clipping on a strikingly similar couple-slaughter in Portland, Oregon. This time the victims were two male antiques dealers who’d been together for twenty-eight years.

Unsolved.

Another stretch of quiet, then a plastic bag containing a key, later identified as operating Phil Seeger’s motorcycle. No one at the scene of Seeger’s “accident” had wondered about the lack of such.

A year after that: a hefty gold chain in a smaller bag. Engraved on the underside of the clasp: Tony.

Repeat burglary of Anton Des Barres’s jewelry. Maybe an anniversary gift to herself, or she’d somehow learned he was terminally ill and vulnerable. She’d somehow gained entry to the mansion — my guess was an old key she’d taken during the first heist — and made a smooth exit.

Let the devil in...

Unlike the others, she’d left Des Barres alive. Maybe because he was ill and in pain and she enjoyed the notion of him suffering.

I wondered if she’d stood in the doorway to his bedroom and, despite that, considered it.

The final souvenir was the coverage of Dr. Stanley Barker’s fatal tumble. Written in the margin: Miser. Said no. Paid the ultimate price.

Milo said, “Nothing about a poisoned dog.”

I said, “A throwaway not worth commemorating.”

“What a pair. I’ll call Orinda and Portland, after all this time they probably won’t be able to do anything about it but what the hell. The rest, no need to get into it. Right?”

I said, “Agreed but there are a few other calls that need to be made.”

“To who?”

I told him.

He said, “You mind doing it? I gotta deal with Jen Arredondo. Got a call last night from her dad. He’s concerned because she says she’s fine, refused the department shrink, and he thinks better to pay up now and avoid PTSD. If we can convince her, can you hook her up with someone? Even you if you feel like it.”

“I’m too involved, we’ll go the referral route.”

“Fair enough. So you’ll do the other calls?”

“No prob.”

“What a pal — scratch that, no wiseassery, you were the main deal on this one. I mean it. And don’t say aw shucks.”

I said, “Buy me lunch.”

“Like I wouldn’t if you didn’t ask.”

I reached Vicki Quandt at her home in Santa Monica Canyon and told her we’d located a relative who was looking for her.

She said, “I figured that might happen. Who?”

“A woman named Bella Owen. She’s local and was your—”

“No need to get into it,” said Quandt. “It was a long time ago and like I told you, I’ve got my life.”

I said, “Just wanted you to know.”

“And I appreciate that — tell you what, text me her information and I’ll see how I feel.”

Call Number Two: Val Des Barres.

She said, “All ears,” when I told her I had new information. The same kind of quivery inflection we’d heard from Ellie at the onset of the sit-down.

When I finished, she said, “What an utter monster. Thank God she didn’t hurt Father... is Ellie okay? Learning all this. Should I reach out to her?”

“At this point, it’s probably best to let her work it out.”

“I do hope she’s okay.”

“It’s looking positive, Val.”

“I hope so... Father was innocent.”

“He was.”

“Though a bit of a rogue.” She laughed.

No sense telling her about Anton Des Barres’s tastes in female companionship. Her laughter was genuine. Wanting to think of him as a guy with flair.

“That he was, Val.”

“He loved me,” she said. “Whatever made him happy.”

I reached Maxine Driver at her campus office.

She said, “Giving or taking?”

I said, “The former.”

“Goody. Juicy stuff?”

“Oh, yeah. There are things you won’t be able to use but there’s plenty you can. I’m figuring two, three papers, minimum, who knows how many symposia.”

“Awesome,” she said. “To paraphrase the tykes.”