The Wedding Guest

Chapter 29

In L.A., twenty miles from city center can take you to a world apart.

Calabasas, spilling into the Santa Monica Mountains on the western edge of the San Fernando Valley, used to be a low-key pocket of rustic, horsey serenity. That’s been altered by an influx of retired athletes and celebrities who’ve achieved fame for merely existing, along with the metastatic palaces they erect and businesses that cater to self-love and shallow notoriety.

A few of the old-timers gripe. But real estate prices have skyrocketed and the heirs of ranchers, fruit farmers, and horse breeders are often thrilled to trade acreage for passive wealth.

On a good day, Calabasas is a half-hour drive from my house, and this was a great day. Traffic on the 101 was sparse and rage-free, the air warm and dry and redolent of old wood and new grass, the blue of the sky so brilliant it verged on unlikely.

Surrounding the freeway, russet and olive rolling hills aimed skyward, gilded by splashes of egg-yolk sunlight.

Milo had picked me up five to nine, mumbling something that might’ve been “Good morning,” and handing me a photograph.

The same crowd shot near the bar where we’d spotted Suzanne DaCosta in her red dress. Lots of small heads. Milo had used a black grease pencil to circle one of them.

A man standing to her right, a few feet behind. Nondescript, Caucasian, middle-aged, clean-shaven, wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie.

Mr. Blend-In. A face you’d never notice unless you knew who you were looking for.

The same went for the trajectory of Michael Lotz’s droopy eyes. Objectively, it was impossible to peg him as watching his victim. But given what he’d done, impossible to think otherwise.

Milo said, “That clinches it, as if it needed clinching,” gunned the unmarked’s engine, and raced toward my gate. I clicked it open just in time for him to speed through. As we sped north on the Glen, I studied the photo some more then put it aside.

A woman, unmindful.

Prey. Predator.

Twenty-eight minutes later, we were exiting the freeway at Los Virgenes Road and driving through a swath of luxury car dealerships, upscale coffee bars and restaurants, plastic surgery practices, day spas, faux-western-wear boutiques, and realtors peddling gated enclaves. Also fast-food joints and gas stations; everyone needs quick fuel from time to time.

It took several miles of climbing the southern foothills to get past that.

First came clumps of the type of house you get near the freeway. Then the terrain unfolded and began to breathe and we were coursing past pastures and soft hills studded with ranch houses, outbuildings, and corrals.

Milo said, “No pumpkins in sight.”

I knew what he was talking about. “So much for the Halloween trade.”

Some people believe Calabasas was named to commemorate a two-hundred-year-old accidental dumping of squash seeds from a Basque farmer’s horse cart. Others are convinced the name honors a Chumash Indian word describing the flight plan of geese. No one really knows the truth but like most California controversies, that doesn’t inhibit strong opinions and the shaming of dissidence.

Currently, squash was winning out.

We rode a ribbon of two-lane highway into the mountains for another quarter hour before reaching the Wagon Lane address of Sandra and Wilbur Burdette.

Easy to spot because a sign on a post featured their name over large reflective numbers. No house visible, just a copse of California oaks and a sinuous dusty drive.

The oaks, gnarled and evergreen, are survivors adapted to drought that predate anyone’s settlement by millennia. During the boom days of West Valley development, entire groves were destroyed without a blink. Nowadays, master planners transplant the trees to golf courses.

Milo said, “Here goes,” and turned onto the snaky road. The curves kept his speed low. A second sign twenty feet in proclaimed: Wilbur A. Burdette, DVM. Ride-ins Welcome.

I said, “No gate. Friendly folk.”

Milo said, “At least for the next couple of minutes.”

Four twists of asphalt later we arrived at a flat pad housing three burgundy clapboard structures, an empty corral, and a smaller fenced-in area holding miniature goats and sheep. More oaks to the left, fencing a grove of olive and citrus trees in full fruit. The tail end of the drive was lined with yucca, aloe, and ground-hugging thatches of creeping bougainvillea.

All of that backed by two or three acres of tall grass followed by pink and gray granite mountainside.

The front structure was a one-story house. To the right stood a cabin of the same style and composition. Abutting the corral and the pen was the largest building, low-pitched and windowless. Bringing a knowing smile to Milo’s glare-ravaged face.

The barn.

I said, “You’re looking like a narc.”

“Whatever it takes.”

He rolled toward a carport created by screwing together steel pipes, covered by white canvas, and housing a white Ford F-150 pickup, a coffee-colored Mercedes diesel station wagon, and a white Toyota Supra.

I kept up with Milo’s eager lope. A rubber welcome mat said Welcome!!!!

Another staked sign to the left of the door: For patient calls, please ring in at Dr. Burdette’s office right behind the house.

The cabin.

Milo said, “I’ve been called beastly but let’s start with being human.”

His bell-ring caused a dog to bark. Then another. Then, a canine chorus.

From within came a whooshing noise. Paws scratching the other side of the door, an opera of howls, growls, yips.

A woman called out, “Quiet, guys!”

Immediate silence.

The same voice said, “It’s open, come in.”

Milo turned the knob and we faced a convocation of dogs self-arranged in height order, like schoolkids in a class photo.

In front, two unalike brown terrier mixes looked up at us wide-eyed, quivering and breathing hard, fighting the desire to express themselves vocally. Behind them stood a slightly larger, curly-coated, bluish-gray poodlish thing with world-weary eyes and a huge drooping tongue. Occupying the next tier was what looked like a purebred white greyhound with a missing ear that did nothing to diminish its aristocratic air and a colossal black, white, and tan bearish creation with some Newfoundland in it, panting.

Sandra Burdette stood behind the largest dog, her hand resting on its withers.

She said, “Excellent listening, guys. Now you get treats.”

The dogs turned in unison, precise as an honor guard, and faced her. She lowered the hand. They sat. She said, “You are so good,” and, beginning with the terriers, now nearly apoplectic from immobility, offered each eager mouth something bone-shaped and green.

“Enjoy!”

Treats in-jaw, the party dispersed without a glance at us, revealing all of Sandra Burdette.

She wore a pink gingham western shirt with pearl snaps, untucked over baggy jeans. Face scrubbed and sunburned at the edges, gray hair tied up loosely, a bag of green treats in one hand, dish towel in the other.

While dealing with the dogs, she hadn’t paid much attention to us. Now she did and her eyes narrowed.

Milo said, “Lieutenant Sturgis—”

“Yes, I remember. How could I forget? This is a surprise. I left the door open because I’m expecting a FedEx with some horse meds for Will. This evening he’ll be tending to a pregnant mare in Santa Paula.”

Milo said, “Is Dr. Burdette here now?”

Head shake. “Ojai. Amiatina donkeys. What did you need to talk to him about?”

“Just following up, ma’am. Happy to talk to you.”

“To me? About what?”

“We just learned the identity of the victim.”

“Oh. It took this long?”

“Her name’s Suzanne DaCosta. Sometimes she went by Kimbee.”

Blank face.

Milo said, “So you don’t know her.”

“Me? I didn’t know anyone at the wedding except for our few friends. Have you talked to the other side?”

“Everyone’s being contacted,” said Milo. Artful dodge. “We actually wanted to speak to the newlyweds because she’s closer in age to them but apparently they’ve decided to take an early honeymoon.”

“Yes, they have.” Sandy Burdette squinted. “I’m confused. Hasn’t this already been covered? When you spoke to all of us and no one knew her?”

“We always follow up, Mrs. Burdette. Things can slip people’s minds. May we come in?”

“I suppose so — sorry, you’ve driven all the way, sure. I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee.”

The house was open and spacious, with honey-colored, tongue-and-groove pine walls and a peaked open-beam ceiling of the same wood. Meticulous maintenance, everything aligned at precise angles. Despite the dog battalion, now out of sight, and three cats that seemed to materialize out of nowhere before padding off, not a trace of animal odor.

My eyes traveled to the rear beyond a knotty-pine kitchen, where glass sliders offered a view of a second pen enclosed on all sides with chicken wire.

An enormous tortoise had all that space to itself.

I said, “Glenn.”

Sandra Burdette said, “You remember.” Genuinely pleased.

I said, “We saw the goats and the sheep coming in. Where’s the blind heifer?”

The smile vanished. “Unfortunately Candace left us four days ago, a sudden internal bleed. She was never a healthy girl — not just the eyes, her limbs weren’t as strong as they should’ve been. Will feels terrible. There was nothing he could do but he hates losing anyone.”

She motioned us toward the center of the living room.

Given the setting and Sandra Burdette’s clothing, you’d be forgiven expecting a western motif, but the Burdettes had opted for French Provincial: stiff brocade chairs, curvy silk couches, gilt-edged case goods, crystal vases stuffed with silk flowers.

On the walls, lots of family photos, amateur quality, including two blond boys who’d been excluded from the wedding.

The remaining space was taken up by photographs of a smiling Wilbur Burdette posing with ribbon-winning farm animals and their owners. A hand-stitched sampler read: THANKS DR. WILL. THE NEWBERRY PARK 4-H CLUB.

Sandra said, “Make yourselves comfortable.”

Not easy with the hard-pack furniture but we faked it and she headed for the kitchen, returning with a black lacquer tray. Thermal pitcher, three mugs, milk and sugar.

“How do you take your coffee?”

Milo said, “Black’s fine.”

I said, “Same here.”

“Tough guys, huh?” Sandra Burdette smiled and turned younger. Mischievous eyes hinted at the apple-cheeked, robust girl she’d once been. She whitened her coffee and dropped in two sugar cubes.

Milo smiled back. “This is great coffee, ma’am.”

“Learned from the best. My dad was a short-order cook in Omaha. Worked double shifts so I could go to college. I studied nursing — human, not critters — worked as an army RN before I met Will.”

We nodded and drank and pretended this was a social visit.

Milo was the first to speak. “Please excuse the question but has anything else come to mind?”

“About the horror? — that’s how I think of it. No, not a single thing. To be honest, I’m trying to forget.”

She set her mug down. “My assumption’s been if it has to do with anyone, and I’m not saying it does, it’s their side.”

“Is there something about them that makes you say that?”

“Logic,” she said. “I know it’s not our side, so who does that leave?” Looking away. “They’re different from us. A little more colorful.”

I said, “Did it surprise you that Garrett went for someone colorful?”

She blinked. “I suppose it did. But with kids you get used to things. You’d better or you’ll always be losing sleep and beating yourself up. Will and I have always been about independence. Respecting the kids’ individuality.”

“Makes sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” she said. “Trust me, it’s the only way.” Her eyelids lowered. “Kids are a challenge.”

I said, “We didn’t get a good feel for Amanda.”

“In what way?”

“She didn’t want to talk to us.”

“My Amanda.” Long sigh. “She’s over-the-top smart, always was. I suppose with that comes... some quirks. She marches to her own drummer and sometimes I’m not sure what the beat is. Garrett and Marilee are more conventional, the two of them were always close. Amanda’s considerably younger. They were always nice to her but I think she felt like an outsider.” A beat. “Amanda’s always been a bit of a nonconformist but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

I said, “A real individual.”

“As real as it gets.”

As she’d talked, I’d studied the family photos. Not close enough to see details but a pattern: Amanda standing a foot or so apart.

Sandra Burdette said, “Anyway, that poor girl. I don’t know her from Adam.”

“Her name’s Suzanne DaCosta.”

Head shake.

Milo got up and handed her the picture.

She winced. “She is — was — a pretty thing. You’re sure she’s not one of Brears’s friends?”

Milo took the snap and sat back down. “Doesn’t seem to be.”

“Then I don’t know what to tell you. And in answer to your question, yes, I was surprised when Garrett chose Brearely. But she’s been good for Garrett. Brought him out.”

I said, “He’s shy?”

“He was super shy as a kid, then he got more social, had friends. He’s never going to be a party type. He’s studious, earnest. Finds satisfaction in doing things well and that requires time and hard work. Now that he’s settled in a fantastic career, it won’t hurt him to be with a girl like Brearely.”

Trying to sound convinced.

I said, “Getting him out in the world, like the trip to Rome.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Is this Garrett’s first time abroad?”

Milo shot me a sidelong smile. Smooooth.

Sandy Burdette said, “If you don’t count Canada or Mexico. Back when we took family vacations, we went to Lake Louise once and Puerto Vallarta once. Then everyone got serious about school and work and we just stayed here and had barbecues.”

“No European trips for you and Dr. Burdette?”

“Not our thing, that probably makes me sound like a hick. I know it’s beautiful over there, the history, the culture. I’m looking forward to seeing the kids’ pictures when they get back. But with Will’s schedule and, besides, there’s so much of America to see...”

I said, “When we spoke to Garrett and Brearely they talked about an island honeymoon in a few months.”

“They surprised us, too. All of a sudden we get a text from the airport from Brearely — I’m sure the whole thing was her idea, Garrett’s not one for impulsiveness. But like I said, that’s not bad, right?”

Milo said, “Right.” Time for his mug to lower. “Mrs. Burdette, this may sound strange but do you know anyone who’s been to Poland?”

“Poland? Why in the world?”

Trying to sound surprised but not quite getting there. Her eyes slid to the left. Locked. Two brief inhalations, then a return trip. Avoiding looking at us. The knuckles around her mug handle were smooth and pale.

Milo said, “Our job, we have to ask all kinds of questions.” Including one you’ve just answered.

“Poland?” said Sandra Burdette. “The girl was Polish? What was her name — DaCosta? That doesn’t sound Polish.”

“I wish I could say more, ma’am.”

“None of us have ever been to Poland, Lieutenant. The only ones who’ve been to Europe, period, are Marilee and Stu. They went to Portugal on their honeymoon but only because they could combine it with a summer fellowship at the Lisbon school of medicine. But Poland? Never.”

Too long an oration. Her face had flushed.

“Okay, thanks, ma’am.”

Sandra stood. “Is there anything else? I do have some chores.”

“Love to look at that tortoise, you don’t see those too often.”

She frowned. “Sorry, no-can-do. Glenn’s endangered and just getting over a virus. The state brought him to Will for treatment and when Will got him better, they gave us a special permit to keep him. We don’t let people get close to him.”

“Aha. Well, good for you.”

Automotive rumbling followed by the thump of a vehicle door shutting drew everyone’s attention to the front door. Moments later, Will Burdette, clad in a western shirt that matched his wife’s, khaki cargo pants, and dusty cowboy boots, stepped in and set down a hard case with a Red Cross sticker on the side while looking at us quizzically.

Pushing white hair off his forehead, he pulled out a Wash’n Dri, wiped his hands, rolled up the wipe, pocketed it. “I figured that Chevy for a cop car. What’s up, guys?”

Before we could answer, a loud drum paradiddle rocked the floor and the dog horde thundered in, swamping him. His grin was instantaneous and broad as he patted and mussed fur, rubbed behind ears, allowed himself to be licked. “They okay for T-R-E-A-T-S, sweetheart?”

Sandra said, “Already gave them Greenies.”

“Well,” said Will, “a few of the organic jerkies shouldn’t hurt.”

“You’re spoiling them, honey.”

“Someone has to.” Out of a pocket came a plastic bag stocked with small brown strips. Just as his wife had, Will Burdette gave the sit command before administering canapés to each animal.

“Be off and enjoy, my friends.” A hand waved and the celebrants raced away.

Milo and I had gotten up to shake Will Burdette’s hand. Huge mitts with the texture of seasoned hardwood.

I said, “Impressive training.”

Will Burdette said, “Sandy’s got the knack. So, what’s the story?”

Sandra said, “They’re following up. About Poland, of all things.”

“Poland?” Eye-tennis between the two of them.

Will squinted. “That’s kind of out of the blue. What’s the relevance?”

“Can’t get into it right now, Doctor. It’s just something we’re asking everyone.”

“Okay. Well, my answer is, it’s a country in East Europe, used to be communist.”

Another grin but none of the warmth he’d shown the dogs.

Sandra said, “They wanted to know if we’ve ever been there.”

Will laughed. “Our descent’s English and Scots-Irish, if I’d go anywhere it’d be the UK. Poland? Heh. That’s a little eastern for our taste. Although I have taken care of Malopolskis. That’s a horse with Polish and Arabian mixed lineage, gorgeous things. Had a client in Camarillo years ago, she kept a couple. Great temperament, really sweet eyes. But that’s about it Polish-wise.”

Another protracted speech.

Sandra said, “There’s some coffee left, hon.”

Will said, “Sure,” and took a couple of steps forward. Rolling gait worthy of a cinema cowboy.

As his wife headed for the kitchen, she said, “How’re the donkeys, Will?”

“For the most part thriving, one’s a little smaller than I’d like but supplements should help.”

“They come from Italy, caught colds on the trip over. Will got them better.”

He said, “They got themselves better, I just guided the process. Tough little buggers.”

Milo and I sat back down. Will Burdette cocked a shaggy eyebrow and remained on his feet. Finally, he placed himself on an absurdly small rococo chair, fingered a pearl snap on his shirt, and man-spread.

Milo said, “As I told Mrs. Burdette, we have identified the victim. Suzanne DaCosta.”

Will shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Did you ask the other side?”

“We’re asking everyone.”

“What’s it been, week and a half? Took a while.”

“That’s the way it sometimes goes, Doctor. In addition to updating you, we came here to see if either of you knew her.”

“Then I guess you came for nothing. Sorry, guys.”

Sandra returned with a significantly larger mug — beer-stein-plus — and handed it to her husband. Shifting behind him, the way she’d done with the dogs, she placed her hands on his shoulders. “Three cubes, hon. These guys take it black.”

“Do they? Tougher than me.” Will smiled, sipped. “Delish, sweetheart. So, is there anything else?”

Milo crossed his legs. I’m in no hurry to leave.

The movement brought Will’s eyes to his own widely splayed limbs. Like an architect’s compass contracting, he put his knees together, placed his boots square on the floor, pitched forward, squinting and setting his jaw. I’d prefer you get the hell out of here.

Not much coffee left in Milo’s cup but he nursed it, letting the silence congeal.

Will Burdette said, “Don’t want to rude, guys, but I’ve got a load of paperwork.”

Milo said, “Just a few more questions, Doctor. I’m sorry if this offends you but in tough cases we need to be thorough. Do you use fentanyl in your practice?”

Sandra’s eyes widened.

Will’s tightened. “You bet I do. It can be very effective with animals. You guys ever read Herriot?”

I said, “The Yorkshire vet.”

“You’ve read him?”

I shook my head.

Will Burdette said, “Great writer, I started off wanting to do human medicine, his books changed my mind. He’s got a thing in one of them about sick animals he thought were terminal being revived just by relaxing them and controlling their pain. You deal with the pain and it stops this self-destructive cycle that leads them to give up.”

I said, “Stress reduction. Giving the body a rest.”

“The body and the soul because let me tell you, guys, animals have souls. I know fentanyl gets a bad rap because the Chinese are cranking it out and pushing it over here and people have weak wills so they’re dying all over the place. But animals don’t get addicted, they just get better. So if I can save a sheep or a cow with fentanyl or any other drug, I’m going to use it. I’m assuming you’re asking me because fentanyl had something to do with that poor girl’s death.”

“It may be a factor.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Will Burdette. “So you’re wondering if this country vet took dope from his own heavily documented supply of controlled substances and it somehow ended up in a stranger who crashed his son’s wedding. No offense, but that’s some fantasy.”

“Unbelievable,” said Sandy, kneading her husband’s shoulders.

He said, “Mmm, feels good.”

Milo said, “Like I said, tough questions, Doctor. If you don’t mind, we’d like to know who has access to your controlled substances and could you please show us where you keep them?”

“I don’t have to show you, right?” said Will. “You’d need a search warrant or something along those lines.”

“We sure would.”

“The Constitution, Lieutenant. It’s a wonderful thing.” He stood, handed his coffee to his wife, and said, “C’mon, nothing to hide. But let’s make it snappy.”