Chapter 8
Wow.
Suddenly I didn’t want to be in my office anymore, especially since Malcolm knew that I was here alone. Why was he hiding his identity?
I needed to clear my mind and not jump to conclusions. I decided that Bardot and I would take a late afternoon stroll.
To try and stay out of Marisol’s line of sight, we avoided going past her house and went the other way around the block. We watched kids in uniforms arrive home from school. There were housekeepers and day nurses hiking a path up the hill to catch the bus. And the gardeners were on their last lawn for the day. Since this was a less common path for us, Bardot was taking extra time with the smells and messages left by other dogs. This was like coming upon a Facebook page for a name from the past and wanting to see every picture, read every post, and analyze all their friends. Only in dog language.
The walk was definitely helping. If I could tie Abigail to Malcolm that quickly, surely the cops had as well. And they could access real estate records instantly, so I was sure that they knew about Malcolm inheriting her estate. Something obvious must have ruled him out as a suspect or Augie would have told me. Still, it wouldn’t explain why he was lying to all of us.
Wait! What about all the obvious things that rule me out, like I hadn’t known that she was gone before finding her grave, I could have no motive whatsoever for wanting her dead, and I’d never set foot on the hill gardens until a week ago?
In the process of thinking through all this, I realized that I was arguing with myself out loud and could feel my face and eyes contort into an Angry Birds embodiment. I resolved to call Augie when I got home, calmed down, and started thinking of more pleasant things.
The sea breeze had started to roll in and I was pondering which bottle of wine to decant when we returned. Was it a Chilean red night? Or more of a Napa Sauvignon type of evening? I was so lost in my oenophile reverie that I nearly ran into a man standing on the sidewalk.
“I’m so sorry,” I said and noticed that I was speaking to the one and only Bobby Snyder, Esq.
“Entirely my fault,” he quickly corrected. “I just met the nicest family and was still focused on helping them, so I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
Bardot looked up from her “Facebook page” and did a full sniff workup on the man.
Seeing him close up made him no less slimy. Even the straw derby that you might see a gentleman sporting while punting on the Thames didn’t soften his snake oil salesman demeanor.
“I guess we were both distracted,” I said, trying to slip past him and put some distance between us.
“What a wonderful dog,” he said, crouching down to pet Bardot and therefore yanking my leash arm backward while my body was in full forward motion. I gave Bardot a sneer, but she was not budging. She greeted him with part suspicion and part sneer. I’d have to compliment her good taste with a treat later.
“Allow me to introduce myself, I am Bobby Snyder, Esq.; though I really must drop the suffix, a bit pretentious, don’t you think? Do you own one of these marvelous homes around here?”
“Why do you ask?”
I didn’t want to divulge any personal information, but I did want to hear his sales pitch. He was practically salivating at having found a new prospect, and with his extra-long neck and curved upper back, he looked like a hungry hyena. The pencil mustache wasn’t doing him any favors either.
“I have been visiting with the good people in this neighborhood and offering my services in procuring additional value and income from the very same homes they reside in. How long have you lived here, Miss—?”
“A little over a year. So what services do you provide?”
“Well, I have a booklet of information I’d be happy to walk you through. Shall we rejoin to your house?”
“Here is fine, I really don’t have much time so if you could, just give me the Cliff Notes version.”
“I see, perhaps I could drop by at a more convenient time?”
He was really getting eerily persistent in wanting my address. Bardot sensed this and tried to pull me away.
“I’m afraid not,” I said, and we started to walk on.
“You do know that oil has been detected almost directly under the sidewalk that you are standing on?”
That stopped me.
“How can you be so sure?” I asked.
“Do you know that with the purchase of your home you also bought the mineral rights?”
“I would have to check, are you able to provide proof that there is oil under here?”
“Absolutely, my dear, I’ll show you when we meet. What is your house number?”
“Is this the best way to reach you?” I asked, waving the flyer he had given me while pointing to the phone number at the top.
“It is indeed, would tomorrow work?”
He had now removed his derby and was literally standing with hat in hand. His voice was sounding familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
Bardot was warming up her chops for a guttural growl.
“I’ll call if I’m interested. Come on, Bardot.”
I was in a “take no prisoners” mood. When I got home, I left a message for Augie to call me. Then I called Sally.
* * *
“Cheers,” said Peggy, happy to be included in this impromptu mini Wine Club. Sally said that she had picked her up on the way over to my house.
We were all sitting around the end of my pool, dangling our legs in the cool but pleasant water. Bardot had decided to do laps and would periodically check on us to see if any food or toys had been produced. I told them about my day and the discovery of Malcolm’s identity. They’d had no idea.
“I have a hard time believing that sweet young Malcolm is a killer,” Sally said, holding her glass up to the fading sunlight to note the deep yellow color that told her that this wine had been aged in an oak barrel. “Then again there’s nothing about a caterpillar that says it is going to be a butterfly either.”
Peggy and I just let that one float.
“I still have some friends at the Agency,” Peggy said, referring to her brief stint with the CIA, “let me see what they can pull up on Malcolm and his extended family.”
“While you’re at it, have them check on that oily lawyer, Snyder.” Sally shook her head, trying to cast off the image of him. “That guy gives me the creeps, why are all these real estate vultures suddenly descending on us?”
“That’s it!” I declared.
They looked at me, waiting for clarification.
“I thought Bobby Snyder’s voice sounded familiar, and now I remember why. He was one of the people in the yelling fest we overheard outside Howard Platz’s construction site.”
“Well, I’ll be darned,” Peggy said. “It seems that Rose Avenue is running rampant with people who aren’t exactly who they say they are. We might as well be in Beverly Hills!”