Twenty minutes later, Sarah rang the bell of a one-story condo a few blocks east of Sonoma Market. While she and Kelley waited for the homeowner to answer, she looked at the small front porch: one padded chair and side table, a pink flamingo teetering in the front flowerbed, a gnome squatting on the porch holding a sign that said “Welcome,” and a pot of geraniums that smelled like cat piss.
Sarah quit doing her deep breathing.
The door squeaked open to reveal a tiny, balding man with a round torso contained by a distorted plaid shirt and overworked buttons. Khaki-covered legs curved outward to tennis shoes that looked five sizes too large.
“Yes?”
“Charlie Osteen?” Sarah inquired.
The old man peered at Sarah over his reading glasses and then at Kelley, suspicious but curious. “Yes?”
“I’m Sarah McKee. A friend of Landon Harris. This is my friend, Detective Kelley Miller. Do you have a moment to talk to us?”
“Police detective?” Charlie’s regard swept down Kelley’s running attire.
“Sonoma County,” Kelley added. “But I’m not here in an official capacity.”
“That’s obvious, young lady. What are you two doing out in all this heat?”
“Getting our exercise, sir,” Sarah said. “As you Yanks say, we have to make hay while the sun shines.”
“What you’re going to make is sunstroke.” He waved them in and shuffled into his front room. Stacks of newspapers took up much of the space. Stacks of books the rest.
“You two girls need a lemonade,” the old man said.
Sarah followed his shuffle through the dining room—which had been turned into a watercolor studio—and into the kitchen, with Kelley close behind.
The cat piss smell switched to a funky odor of damp coffee filters, overripe cantaloupe, reeking sponges, and empty cans of baked beans. His trash overflowed by the fridge. Spots of coffee dotted the floor from the sink to the bin. Fruit flies sailed past Sarah’s nose to a clutch of black bananas turning to mummies in a bowl.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Charlie asked, pouring three glasses of lemonade, no ice. He skidded the glasses across the counter to them.
“Thanks.” Sarah took a sip and tried not to make a face. Coming from Scotland, she enjoyed sugar more than the average American. But this lemonade was so sweet, she was surprised it wasn’t forming crystals on the side of the glass. “Actually, we’re hoping you are the Charlie Osteen who was a friend of Landon Harris.”
“Not many Charlie Osteens in Sonoma, young lady. Just me.”
“So, you did know Mr. Harris?”
“That’s right. And it’s terrible. The news.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Kelley asked.
“A couple of weeks ago. He told me his son was driving up from Santa Barbara, and that’s the last I heard from him.”
“How was he when you last saw him?”
“Same as ever. Life of the party. We went to quiz night at Murphy’s. Won second place. I knew the date of the Battle of Culloden, and no one else did.” He beamed. “Do either of you?”
“1746.” Sarah answered without hesitation, recalling her Scottish history.
“Oh,” Charlie deflated, not so proud of his accomplishment now.
Sarah didn’t explain how she knew. She had no wish to discuss the centuries of European history during which the English had slaughtered and subjugated her people. The less she contemplated the English, the better. She returned to the subject of Landon’s past instead.
“Was Landon in a wheelchair when you went to quiz night?”
“No. But he’s been slowing down.” Charlie shrugged a shoulder. “We all have been.”
“Did you know he had cancer?”
“Yes. We didn’t keep secrets from each other, Landon and me. I knew him for sixty-five years.” He put the lemonade jug back in the fridge. “Life isn’t going to be the same without him, young lady. No, it won’t, that’s for sure.”
Sarah set down her glass. “Did you know he wanted me to find someone for him and make amends?”
“Amends?” Charlie scowled, confused but thinking hard.
“Yes, but he didn’t have the chance to give me any details before he passed. And he died so suddenly, it made me suspicious.”
“You and me both. Did you know there’s going to be an inquest?”
“Aye, I requested it.”
“Ah.” Charlie’s probing stare studied her, as if trying to figure out the connection between Sarah and Landon.
“Did he ever talk to you about his early life?” Sarah continued.
“All the time. He was a great storyteller.” He held up a finger. “Wait a second. Are you that wine expert he knows?”
“I’m a wine consultant, aye.”
“I thought your name was familiar.”
Sarah pressed on. “What about Marvilla Diaz? Did he ever mention her?”
“Marvilla?” Charlie rolled his eyes and drained his drink. “Now that is a blast from the past.”
“Did you know her?”
“Never met her. She was a neighbor girl of his. But I know Landon was crazy about her. He wanted to marry her. He tried to get her to run away with him. You know, elope.”
“I heard that.”
“Her brother wouldn’t allow it. He kept her on a real tight leash. And then Landon’s father sent him to school in France.”
“To break up the lovers.”
“Yes. And it ended up breaking Landon’s heart. He was never the same. He had a lot of women friends over the years, but he always told me he could take ‘em or leave ‘em.”
“Even Jean-Paul’s mother?”
“Especially her.” Charlie regarded the far wall while a private film apparently played through his memory. “Man, what a witch she was. We called her the Wicked Witch of the East. She was from Paris. Sabina.” He blew air through his lips. “What a piece of work. Narcissist of the highest order.”
“They divorced.”
“Years ago.”
“So, he carried a torch for Marvilla, do you think?” Kelley asked.
“Definitely. All his life. But she broke his heart, too. Turned her back on him. Gave him the silent treatment. No explanation at all. And that was that.” Charlie shook his head. “You know how women are. You just can’t figure them out sometimes. He finally gave up trying. Frankly, I blame that brother of hers.”
“We think Marvilla might have been pregnant at the time Landon was sent away.”
“What?” Charlie’s eyebrows shot up.
“Before Landon died, he found a letter in his father’s files. A letter from Marvilla that his dad had kept from him.”
“Saying she was pregnant?”
“If you read between the lines, aye.”
“Landon might have had another kid?”
“Aye. He did. A daughter. We know for sure because of DNA. But we don’t know her name or where she lives. That’s why we’re trying to locate Marvilla.”
“Marvilla went to Mexico,” Kelley put in. “But we don’t know where in Mexico.”
“We thought you might be able to tell us. Maybe Landon mentioned her extended family?”
“Sorry, no.” Charlie placed his glass in the sink. “I can’t help you there.”
“Do you know where the Diaz family hails from in Mexico?”
“No. They’ve been in Sonoma Valley forever. A hundred years. At least.”
Frustrated, Sarah sighed and glanced at Kelley, hoping her friend had more questions to ask.
“Well, heck,” Kelley said. “A dead-end, then.”
Obviously, Kelley didn’t have anything to add.
“I’m sorry, girls.” Charlie reached for their glasses. Then he glanced at Sarah. “But any chance you might be interested in being on the team?”
“What team?” Sarah countered.
“The trivia team. You too, detective. With Landon gone, the Press Gang needs more members. We’re mostly journalists, but cops and wine experts would be allowed.”
“Thanks for the offer,” Sarah smiled. “But I travel too much to be on anyone’s team.”
The words hung in the air, mocking her. Maybe her work and travel had contributed to her marriage falling apart more than she cared to admit. The divorce wasn’t just because of Matteo’s infidelity. Maybe she hadn’t been there for him and hadn’t noticed what he was interested in—or even up to, for that matter.
So many layers. Like the papers in Charlie’s front room.
* * *
After leaving Charlie’s house, Sarah and Kelley walked back to Kelley’s cottage and rehydrated—and not with bubbly for a change. Then Sarah drove to Wesley’s former apartment, paid the rent on his flat before his furniture was thrown out, and motored home to her television-addicted guest.
When she opened the door, however, she was surprised to see the television had vanished and the front room furniture had been moved.
Wesley walked down the hall toward her, brushing his hands on the front of his silk robe. “What do you think?”
“I think someone has been a busy little bee.” Sarah hung her purse on the hook by the door. “Not naming names, pal.” She made a face at him. “I mean, Wesley.”
He pushed up his glasses and studied her expression. “Are you mad?”
“Not mad. Just a bit...surprised.” She swept forward. “This isn’t your house, you know.”
“I know. But I couldn’t relax, Sarah. Because everything was wrong.”
“Wrong.”
“Duh.” He nodded at the living room. “You had the TV in there. And that skinny couch. You couldn’t even stretch out.”
“I don’t usually stretch out,” she countered. “In fact, I don’t usually watch television.”
“Because it belongs in the family room.”
“You mean the snug. Where I read and think.”
“You don’t need a room for that. Jeez.”
“I don’t?” She crossed her arms and regarded him with a stern look.
“And you need drapes.” He moved to the front window and swept the air in front of the glass. “Drapes here.” He shifted to the smaller window on the side. “And here. And pillows to match. You know, color. Oh, and a plant for this corner.”
“Give me a break, Wes. I’m not an interior decorator.”
“Duh.” He backed away from the couch and held up both arms to indicate the blank space above the sofa. “A great big painting here. Or a mirror. I like mirrors.”
Sarah’s initial objection to his changes gave way to begrudging interest. She had to admit the new layout looked more welcoming. And yes, a plant would bring the outdoors into the lonely front room which was dark, cut off from the light in back. Even more, this new look made the place feel like a different house which would help put the break-in trauma behind her.
Engaged in the changes now, Sarah watched Wesley clump around the space, saying what needed to be added or moved, adjusting a chair, and twisting a lamp. She had never seen him more animated.
“So, let’s see the family room,” she said, using his terminology. “What have you done to it?”
He showed her how he had mounted the television, rotated the couch, rearranged her books and awards, and turned the reading chair so the light hit it from the back.
Sarah assessed the space, hands on her hips, and realized her idiot savant acquaintance might be long on savant and not an idiot at all. He had simply missed his calling.
“Wesley?” She kept her tone chilled.
He swung around to gape at her, his mouth ajar, obviously expecting to be chastised for what he’d done.
“Do you have your computer back from the police?”
“Yes.” He studied her while he drew out the word, still not sure of her reaction. His curly head tilted to one side and back, as if expecting a blow.
“Can you find the things you mentioned online?”
“You mean, like pillows?”
“Everything you just said.”
“You mean like a painting? And drapes?”
“I mean everything.”
“Yeah. No doubt. Yeah.”
“Make a list, get prices, and we’ll talk. I’ll pay you for your trouble.”
“You don’t have to pay. Jeez. I like doing it.”
“You need a job, Wes. Decorating is a job. Get paid for it.”
She left a flabbergasted Wesley Leslie III in the middle of the family room and headed for her bedroom to change. Before she made it to the shower, her phone rang.