The Murder Book

"Schwi

"Nope."

"What about Marge- the woman who married him."

"She comes in for feed when she runs out on her bulk order," said Harley. "Yeah, she married him, but that makes her his wife, not his friend."

And when are you entering law school, F. Lee Picky?

I said, "Marge met him here."

"Guess so." Harley's brows knitted. "Haven't seen her either, for a while."

Roger said, "She's probably ordering off the Internet, like everyone. We gotta get with that."

"Yeah," said Harley, listlessly. "So, c'mon tell me, man, why're you asking about him? Someone off him or something?"

"No," I said. "He's dead, all right. Fell off a horse a few months ago."

"That so. Well, she never mentioned it. Marge didn't."

"When's the last time you saw her?"

Harley looked back at Roger. "When's the last time I saw her?"

Roger shrugged. "Maybe four, five months ago."

"Mostly everyone orders bulk from suppliers," said Harley. "And the Internet. We do gotta get hooked up."

"So Marge has been in since Schwi

"Probably- I couldn't swear to it, man. Listen, don't pin me down on any a this."

Roger gave another sweat-suited shrug. "Marge don't talk much, period."

Travis Tritt bowed out and Pam Tillis weighed in about "The Queen of Denial."

Harley said, "Is this about drugs, or something?"

"Why do you say that?"

Harley fidgeted. His brother said, "What Vance means is that the Happy Night- everyone knows about it. People go in and out. You wa

I kept my car in the Randall's lot and walked the block to the motel. The place was a twelve-unit gray stucco C built around a central courtyard and open to the street. The yard was tiled with crumbling bricks, didn't look as if it had been designed for parking, but four dirty compact cars and an equally grubby truck with a camper shell occupied the space. The office was off to the right- a cubicle that smelled of gym sweat ma

My entry rang a bell over the door and the clerk shot a look at me then glanced under the counter. Reflexively. Probably checking out the requisite pistol. Or just wanting to let me know he was armed. A sign on the wall behind him said CASH ONLY. Same message in Spanish, right below. He didn't move but his eyes jumped around and the left lid twitched. He couldn't be more than twenty-two or -three, could probably take the adrenaline surges and blood-pressure spikes for a few more years.

I showed him the badge, and he shook his head. Atop the counter was a novella- black-and-white photos of characters speaking in captions, storyboard laid out like a comic book. Upside down I caught a few words "sexualismo" "con passion."

He said, "Don' know nothin' " Heavy accent.

"I haven't asked anything."

"Don' know nothin' "

"Good for you," I said. "Ignorance is bliss."

His stare was dull.

"Pierce Schwi

No answer.

I repeated the name.

"Don' know nothin' "

"An old man, Anglo, white hair, white beard?"

Nothing.

"He used to work at Randall's."

Uncomprehending look.

"Randall's Western Wear- down the block?"

"Don't know nothin' "

"What's your name?"

"Don' kno-" Lights on in the brown eyes. "Gustavo."

"Gustavo what?"

"Gustavo Martinez Reyes."

"You speak any English, Mr. Martinez Reyes?"

Headshake.

"Anyone work here who does?"

"Don' know noth-"

So much for ace detective work. But I'd come this far, why not give Ojai another try- check out a place I knew Marge Schwi

Maybe she hadn't. Or maybe Schwi

I continued to the next freeway on-ramp and was back on Highway 33 within minutes. The air was cold and clean, every color on full volume, and I could smell ripening fruit in the neighboring groves.

O'Neill & Chapin sat in one of those cozy commercial groupings that had sprouted along the road, this one a well-shaded segment just past the center of Ojai but several miles before the turnoff to Marge Schwi

O'Neill & Chapin, Purveyors of Fine Paper and Pigments. Est. 1986.

Behind the windows were dark, oak shutters. A sign leaning against the slats said:

On a buying trip in Europe. Back soon.

I checked out the neighboring business. To the right was the candlery, also shuttered. Then Marta, Spiritual Counselor and the Humanos Theosophic Institute. To the left was a one-story office building faced in river rock: chiropractor's office, a notary public-cum-insurance broker, a travel agent specializing in "nature-friendly excursions." Next to that, in a su

Celestial Café.

Gold stars danced around the edges of the signs. Lights flickered behind blue gingham curtains. It was nearly 3 P.M. and I'd fed neither my brain nor my gut. Times like this, I supposed, organic muffins and herbal tea wouldn't be half-bad.

But according to the blackboard mounted above the open kitchen, the café specialized in country French food- crepes, quiche, soufflés, chocolate desserts. Real coffee, Lord amighty.

Some kind of New Age sound track- tinkly bells, flute, and harp- eased out of speakers set into the low, wood-beam ceiling. More blue gingham covered half a dozen tables. A woman with elaborately braided gray hair wearing a buckskin jacket over a crinkly, pink dress sat enjoying what looked to be ratatouille. No server was in sight, just a pasty-faced, heavyset, white-aproned woman wearing a blue bandana over her hair cutting vegetables in the kitchen. At her elbow was a six-burner Wolfe range, with one flame aglow under a cast-iron crepe pan. Fresh batter had just been poured into the pan, and the cook stopped cutting long enough to grab a towel and take hold of the handle. Tilting deftly, she created a perfect disc that she slid onto a plate, then topped with creamed spinach. A dash of nutmeg, and the crepe was rolled and placed on the counter. Then back to the vegetables.

The gray-haired woman got up and took the crepe. "Beautiful, Aimee."

The cook nodded. She looked to be forty or so, had a squashed face and downturned eyes. The hairs that had peeked out from under the bandana were light brown and silver.

I smiled at her. Her face registered no expression, and she continued chopping. I read the blackboard. "How about a mixed-cheese crepe and coffee?"

She turned around, left the kitchen through a side door. I stood there, listening to bells and flute and harp.

Behind me, the gray-braided woman said, "Don't worry, she'll be back."

"I was wondering if it was something I said."

She laughed. "No, she's just shy. Heck of a cook, though."

Aimee returned with a small wheel of white cheese. "You can sit," she said, in a very soft voice. "I'll bring it to you."

"Thanks much." I tried another smile, and her mouth quivered upward for less than a second, and she began wiping the crepe pan.