Liar

“One can always hope,” he said, smiling to himself as he walked toward his car.

I put the envelope on the small table in the van, then went back out to get the chairs. When I returned, Travis was standing next to the table, his hair sleep-tousled, a look of bewilderment on his face.

“Where are we?”

“A park on the east side of Las Piernas.” I picked up the envelope and explained why we had left Mary’s. “We tried to wake you, but the pain pill made that impossible.”

“I vaguely remember walking out to the van,” he said, rubbing his face, seeming still half-asleep. “How can you be so sure they knew where we were?”

That led to an explanation about my afternoon, and the photos.

“The photos are in that envelope?”

“Yes.”

“You said he took photos of my mother?”

“Yes.”

“May I seem them?” He said it with a touch of impatience.

Reluctantly, I handed them to him. I stepped outside to take the awning down.

He was silent as he looked through them, but despite visible efforts to control himself, he couldn’t hide his grief when he came to one of them. He hadn’t looked through all of them, but he set them down, then covered his eyes with his left hand. I stepped inside, finished with the awning, but leaving the door open. On the table, at the top of the stack, was one of the photos of his mother at Arthur’s funeral.

He broke down, but this storm was over almost as quickly as it started, as if he only needed its release for it to pass.

I found a box of tissues, and he took it, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just-God! I should have been there! I should have taken care of her, protected her!”

“Do you think you could have prevented Richmond from spying on her?”

After a moment he shook his head. “I couldn’t even prevent him from spying on you and me.”

He stepped outside, looked around. “Can we stay here overnight?”

“No. But we should keep moving, anyway.”

He glanced back at the envelope.

“Do you think Robert DeMont killed my mother?”

“If he did, McCain will find out from the car.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “But you don’t think he did it.” I m not sure.

“Why not?”

“These photos were most likely taken because someone believes your father murdered his first wife.”

“Harold Richmond and Robert DeMont both believe that,” he said.

“Well, Richmond does anyway.” I told him about DeMont’s history with knives. “But the more I think about it, the more I wonder why Robert would have killed Gwen. He might have tried to get her to divorce your dad, so that he could go back to raiding her money. But if she was dead and he couldn’t pin the murder on your dad, he was out of luck.”

“Maybe he found out about us-my mom and me,” Travis said. “Maybe he did hope to frame my dad, thought the bigamy would convince a jury that my dad was a murderer. Then the other DeMonts would get everything-my dad couldn’t inherit.”

“Hmm. But that was all settled a long time ago, whether they like it or not. Why hire someone to take photos of you and your mother now? Why attack you, your mother, Ulkins? They won’t get anything from the estate by killing you.”

“Who would?”

“Your uncle Gerald.”

“But he said he can’t inherit-”

“Gerald only said he couldn’t get anything from the DeMont estate. There could be money that didn’t come from her inheritance, and which would be fair game for Gerald. We need to talk to your friend Mr. Bre

“Lake Arrowhead.”

“So tell him we’ll come up to Lake Arrowhead to talk to him.”

He made the call. When he hung up, he said, “I know that Gerald lied to me, but think about the things that have happened! This Richmond guy takes photos of my mom in an intersection, and she’s killed there! He takes these photos of my camper, and it blows up! What more do you need? I’m not saying I know why Richmond and Robert DeMont are trying to destroy us-hell, maybe they think of this as revenge. But Gerald couldn’t know you were going to find me that day, or even know where you live.”

“You’re right about Richmond and his photos, but I’m not so sure what you just said about Gerald is true.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something occurred to me while I was talking to McCain, telling him where he could count on finding Richmond. Earlier today, I had been asking myself some of those same questions-how could Gerald know where Richmond was going, and when he’d be there? Richmond might not have noticed that he had a tail on him, but Gerald wouldn’t be able to follow him around night and day. He works. And Deeny works, too. But I had forgotten a couple of pieces of information-failed to put them together until I was talking to McCain.”

I flipped to the page of my notebook that had the numbers from Margot’s caller-ID display written on it, and, next to them, the information Jerry Chase had looked up for me on the News-Express computers.

“I want to test a theory,” I said. I dialed the phone number. The number hadn’t answered the last time I called it-from the pay phone near Rivo Alto. I had called after closing time that night.

Travis looked on, puzzled.

“I’m calling a bar in Los Alamitos,” I said. “One that Harold Richmond frequents on a regular basis.”

After three rings, a gruff voice answered, “Wharf.”

“Hi,” I said. “Is Deeny there?”

Travis’s eyes widened.

“Naw, she won’t be in until five,” the voice answered, “but she’ll be working-no personal calls. Call her at home, all right?” He promptly hung up on me.

I repeated the conversation to Travis.

“So Richmond gets drunk at this bar and brags about his progress in the case,” Travis said. “And she goes home and tells Gerald.”

“Right.”

“Wouldn’t Richmond make the co

“Not unless he sees her with Gerald; if she drives herself to and from work, probably not. And how many men in a bar ever learn a cocktail waitress’s last name?”

“I see your point. How did you know she worked there?”

“Our informant in the trailer park told us she was a cocktail waitress.”

“Trudy Flauson! Yes, now I remember.”

“Richmond the braggart,” I said. “Not hard to imagine him telling her about his obsession, especially when there’s some exciting news: Arthur is seeing his son again; Arthur is in the hospital; Arthur has legally married Briana Maguire.”

The phone rang. Travis answered it, then looked over at me. “It’s Mr. Bre

30

We were on the Riverside Freeway, stuck in traffic, when the fight started. It began with what was supposed to be a compliment.

“I have to admit,” Travis said, “I’ve been surprised by the Kellys.”

“Finding out we aren’t such a bad bunch after all?” I said, trying to keep my tone light, but in retrospect, I’ll admit I failed to do so.

“I’m not ready to forgive Patrick, of course,” he said.

“Oh, of course not!”

He didn’t miss it that time. “Look, I’m sorry, but you weren’t living in Las Piernas when all hell broke loose for us. Your father completely turned his back on us.”

“Travis, that back had been turned on your family for years. I don’t say it was right-it obviously grew out of a terrible misunderstanding. But have you ever thought that your father could have explained what was going on?”

“Oh, right! He’s going to tell Patrick Kelly, who has scowled at him from the moment he met him, that he can’t read!”

“I’m not saying that what my father did was wonderful. But how hard did anybody on your side of the family work to patch things up?”