Liar

She smiled. “Cool!”

I didn’t think a body shop would be open on a Sunday, but I couldn’t keep myself from driving past it. I made my way over to Highway 39, Beach Boulevard. I didn’t have far to go before I came to Sun Coast. As expected, it was closed. I pulled up in front and saw several cars locked up behind its wrought-iron fence. None of them were Camrys. I’d have to come back on Monday.

I headed back to PCH. At a traffic light, I moved the envelope on the seat next to me so that it was tucked in more securely. I thought of Travis. With some distance between me and Robert DeMont’s house, I began to doubt myself. Maybe I should have stayed and talked to De-Mont, should have at least tried to figure out what he was pla

With a little lane changing, I got past some slowpokes on Highway 1. In the clear, I asked for a little more from my old ragtop, and it delivered. I was anxious to get back to my family.

28

“Frank called,” Mary said when I returned. “He left this number. Room two fifty-four.”

“Where’s Travis?”

“Sleeping. His hand was bothering him and-of course, much more than that. Took one of those pills. Sleep will do him good. You look like you could use a little nap yourself.”

I did feel weary, but I knew it wasn’t caused by a lack of sleep. Remembered precariousness, vulnerability-that was what weighed on me. It was as if I had blindly stepped out over a cliff with one foot, drew back in time to keep from falling, but now, with solid ground beneath me, could only think of that near miss. Watch where you’re going. Watch where you’re going.

“Maybe I’ll try to catch some sleep a little later,” I told her. “Mind if I use your phone?”

I billed the call to my home number.

“Are you in Montana?” I asked Frank, once I was co

“Yes, in Helena.” He gave me the hotel name, which I hadn’t been able to decipher from the switchboard’s mumbled answer. “Thought I’d give you that information on DeMont,” he said.

“That was fast-this friend of yours must be pretty efficient.”

“I didn’t ask for anybody’s help.” I could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “I looked it up myself-well, Pete and I worked on it together, and I found it first.”

“How?”

He laughed. “Same way you would have. I went to the library.”

“And to think some women have to worry about how their husbands will spend a Saturday night on the road.”

“Be sure you tell Rachel that Pete came with me. The library was open last night and we had some time, so we looked at microfilm-old local newspaper files, just to see if we could find anything. Pete took the first half of June, I took the second half. And I found it.”

“Great! Tell me what you learned.”

“Okay. June 19, 1940. Robert DeMont and his father were named in the article, and the paper referred to them as ‘two drifters from California.” They did some work on a farm owned by a widow, on the understanding that she’d pay them. She wasn’t satisfied with the work and was going to give them less than the agreed-upon amount. Robert lost his temper, picked up a kitchen knife and took a couple of swipes at her.“

“A knife?”

“Yeah.” He paused. “Maybe it’s his weapon of choice.”

I began to feel a little better about breaking DeMont’s window-and a little shaky again.

“Are you there?” he asked.

“Yes-sorry. So what happened then?”

“According to the paper, Horace and the widow struggled with Robert, both trying to get control of him, but he still managed to cut her once. Horace wrested the knife away from him, and then helped the widow bind up her wound.”

I had been in Robert DeMont’s kitchen. What if he had been in the mood to stab somebody then?

“Apparently it wasn’t very deep,” Frank was saying, “but naturally, she was upset. A neighbor happened by and the DeMonts got scared and ran off. The neighbor called the police, who managed to catch the DeMonts before they got very far.”

“They were both arrested?”

“No, just Robert. But Horace wouldn’t leave town without him. There was a second article, a little later on, saying that the charges were dropped, and there’s a quote from the widow that made it sound as if the whole thing was a misunderstanding.”

“Right,” I said. “A misunderstanding that got straightened out once Papa DeMont’s checks cleared the bank.”

“Probably.”

“I wonder how often his money covered some situation like this?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “but steer clear of these people, all right?”

“I can promise you, I won’t go near Horace or Robert DeMont.” I didn’t tell him I had already learned that lesson the hard way.

“What happened?” he said sharply.

Oh, damn. “Who said anything happened?” I tried, but even to me it sounded feeble.

“ ‘I can promise you’? You think I just met you yesterday?”

So I ended up explaining.

After a long silence, I heard him let out a deep sigh. “You’re sure you’re okay? I mean, I know you weren’t hurt, but-”

“Yes,” I said. “Thanks for asking.”

“You’re still willing to make that promise? I don’t have to have Reed show you a pile of photos of stabbing-wound victims?”

“Not necessary-I promise. I believe absolutely that Robert DeMont is capable of stabbing someone in a fit of rage. I don’t want to be next.”

“You might also think about the fact that one of the easiest places in the world to buy a wetsuit is Huntington Beach.”

I didn’t say anything. I was picturing self-involved Robert DeMont- walking past a surf shop, looking in the windows, suddenly inspired; later, pleased with his plan to use the wetsuit, reveling in his invention of a special torture device, eager to try it out.

Frank’s voice brought me back from horrific visions. He had changed the subject-apparently he didn’t want to end on that note of fear and argument. I didn’t either. We talked for a while longer. I thanked him again for the research help, and we agreed to talk again later that night. In the end, I was glad not to be hiding anything from him, and knew that talking about it with him had helped me shake off the worst of my gloominess.

Mary, seeing I wasn’t going to take a nap, made a strong cup of coffee for me. I asked to borrow a magnifying glass, and after locating one for me, she went out to work in her garden. One of the things I like about Mary is that she puts a limit on her hovering.

I sat at the kitchen table and took another look through the envelope I had taken from Robert DeMont. This time, I pulled out the note. It read:

Robert-Rushed these per your request, no time to sort them. I have my own copies, these are yours to keep.

Have already spoken to you re: photos I took of subject’s mother prior to locating him. Of interest is Irene Kelly, subject’s cousin, who appears with subject and unknown woman in some shots. Believe Kelly may have possession of item we seek.

It was signed by Harold Richmond.

The anger kicked in again. I was feeling better and better about breaking that window. If I hadn’t made that promise to Frank, I would have considered going back and breaking a few more. But what, I wondered, was this “item” they were looking for? The murder weapon? But why would they look for that if Robert DeMont had killed her?

I thought about this. If Robert DeMont had killed Gwendolyn in a fit of anger, then left the knife at the scene, who found it? Arthur or the housekeeper, Mrs. Coughlin. If Richmond believed I had it, he must also believe that Arthur took it from the scene.

But Richmond thought Arthur, not Robert DeMont, was guilty. He’d never work for DeMont if he thought Robert had killed Gwendolyn. Maybe that suited DeMont just fine; let Richmond pursue it for his own reasons and-and what? It made no sense. DeMont would not want Richmond to find the knife-not if the knife could somehow link him to the crime.