On Tuesday afternoon, I got the results of my background check on Millicent and Byron Patchett, I opened the file, gave it a quick once-over, then printed it out for a deeper read, jotting notes on a lined pad next to the papers spread out on my desk.
As I’d guessed, Millicent was Slade’s mother. The surprising note was that Byron Patchett, Slade’s stepfather, was a local developer. In fact, he was the chief executive officer of Bay Oak Development, the company whose latest project had burned last week in the fire Gary Manville told me about the day before. Bay Oak was a member of the coalition of developers and businesses offering a sizable reward for whoever was responsible for the spate of construction-site fires.
Another fire in the family, I thought. It was an interesting coincidence. Or was it? Was that just me being suspicious every time I heard about a fire? After all, Slade wasn’t here when the fire happened. At least it didn’t appear so.
I pushed the thought aside for now and focused my attention on the report, and the information it provided about Millicent and her son.
Eric Charles Slade, aka Slade, was twenty-seven, the only offspring of Millicent and Walter Slade. The Slades had divorced fifteen years ago, when Eric was twelve. Both had remarried after the divorce. Walter and wife number two, a woman named Linda, lived in one of the suburbs that had sprung up east of Sacramento, the state capital. Byron was Millicent’s second husband.
The Patchetts jointly owned a house in Lafayette, a city of about 26,000 people located in Contra Costa County, on the other side of the hills that rose to the east of Berkeley and Oakland. That part of the East Bay was not as urban as my location, and it was full of grassy meadows, rolling hills and woodlands. Lafayette was one of the wealthier communities in that area and the population demographics skewed white. It was a place where even a bare-bones, mid-twentieth-century ranch-style house sold for well over a million dollars, and sometimes double or triple that.
Millicent also owned property in Walnut Creek, the large city that bordered Lafayette on the east. It was a condominium, and it looked like she’d bought it right after she and Walter had divorced. It appeared she’d lived there for a year or so, with her son. After she married Byron, she kept the condo, using it as a rental property. I did a search on the address and came up with a listing on a real estate site, showing the place in photos and on a map. The monthly rent on the two-bedroom unit made me glad I was out of the rental market. It was a good thing I’d bought my house a few years ago.
In addition to her rental property, Millicent owned a business. She and another woman named Rosalie Benson had filed a fictitious business name statement for a retail store called Bluebird, also with a Lafayette address. I couldn’t tell from that name what the business entailed, so I plugged the name and address into my search engine. I came up with a website heavy on images of bluebirds, with text and photos that told me the shop sold vintage clothing and jewelry.
I had no more appointments today, so I closed my office and collected my Toyota from the lot in back of the building. It was the middle of the afternoon and the eastbound traffic on Highway 24 moved relatively well, far better than it would in an hour or so when the commuters began driving home. I drove through the Caldecott Tunnel, whose four bores pierced the steep slopes of the Oakland hills. On the east side of the tunnel, the highway curved as it went downhill to the town of Orinda. A few miles beyond were signs indicating that the next three exits led to Lafayette. I took an exit near the BART station and headed into town.
Hawthorne Drive was south of Moraga Boulevard, not far from the downtown business district. The street wound through a residential neighborhood, the street shaded by tall pines and mature oak trees. I drove slowly up the street, past one intersection with a blue postal service mailbox on the corner. Midway up the next block I found the Patchetts’ address, a sprawling one-story house with a cream stucco exterior and brown trim. The front yard sloped upward, as did the driveway that led to a double garage. Rhododendrons—pink, white and purple—banked the front of the house, and planter boxes held red and orange tulips. It didn’t look like anyone was home.
I parked at the curb and explored, hoping one of the neighbors didn’t get curious and call the police. I walked up the driveway and down a walkway where the garbage and recycling bins were lined up. At the gate I peered into the backyard, seeing a covered patio with contemporary rattan furniture.
I retraced my steps and headed down the driveway to the street. Just as I reached the sidewalk I encountered a woman who appeared to be in her late fifties or early sixties, with short, silvery hair visible under her purple billed cap. She was dressed in cropped denim pants and a bright purple T-shirt that matched her cap. The small shaggy terrier with her bounded toward me, checked by the leash she held.
“That’s Razzle,” she told me. “He’s really friendly.”
“I can see that.” I was hoping she was friendly, too, willing to share some information about her neighbors. The end of the leash was in one hand and the other held several envelopes. Evidently she was walking down to the mailbox I’d seen near the corner. I leaned down and let the little brown-and-white dog sniff my hand, and surreptitiously glanced at the label in the upper left corner of the top envelope. The name on the return address was Bonnie Redeker.
After giving me a friendly lick, the terrier concentrated his attention on my shoes and the hems of my slacks. “I have cats. He must smell them.”
“We have cats, too,” Ms. Redeker said. “He likes cats. I saw you at the Patchetts’ house. I imagine they’re at work. Millicent has a shop downtown and Byron has an office in Oakland.”
“I’ll try the shop next,” I said. “Since I do want to talk with Millicent.”
“Well, tell her Bonnie said hello. She works so much I hardly see her, and we just live three doors up the block.”
I pointed at the Patchetts’ house. “Have they lived here a long time?”
“Oh, yes. More than fifteen years,” she said. “They moved in when they got married. It’s a second marriage for both of them.”
“Yes, I know. Blended families, right? That can sometimes be a problem.”
“Oh, yes, it certainly can. Especially with her son.” Bonnie Redeker’s voice took on a gossipy tone, just dishing the dirt, the two of us. “Byron’s son and daughter were just as nice as they could be. Of course, they never lived here. They were in Southern California with their mother. But they used to visit and they were so polite and well brought up. But Eric, Millicent’s son, he was, well, troubled to say the least. My daughter Carrie was in the same class at Acalanes High School. She says he was always getting into trouble.”
I nodded, encouraging her. “So I heard. Acting out. I guess that’s what they call it.”
“It seemed like he and that cousin of his were always getting up to something,” she added. “That boy was a year or two older than Eric. He lived in Walnut Creek. His mother is the sister of Eric’s father. What was his name?” She thought about it for a moment. “Marsh, I think.”
Marsh Spencer, I thought. In his email, Cam Gardner, the bass guitarist for Slade’s defunct group, the Flames, had told Antoine and me that the group’s drummer, the one with all the restless energy, was Slade’s cousin.
“Maybe Eric resented his parents getting a divorce. It happens.”
She nodded in agreement. “It certainly does. Divorce is just hard on kids, that’s all I can say about it.”
“What kind of trouble did Eric get into when he and your daughter were in high school?”
“Well, I probably shouldn’t be talking about this,” she said.
Oh, please do, I thought.
“Carrie said…” Her voice trailed off, as though she was considering whether she’d revealed too much. “There’s always the usual stupid stuff teenage boys get into. But Carrie always said it was more than that. I can’t remember any specifics, but I do recall something Carrie said that stuck with me. She said the kids in school didn’t want to get on Eric’s bad side, because he’s one of those who likes to get even. You know what I mean?”
I had a pretty good idea. “Was there a particular incident?”
“Oh, yes. There was a fire.”
Another fire.
Somehow, I wasn’t surprised. Slade had left a trail of ashes that extended from Texas to New Orleans. How long was the trail here in California?
“A fire? Really? I hadn’t heard about that. Was it an accident? Or deliberate?”
“Oh, deliberate,” Ms. Redeker said. “At least that’s the story that was going around. Carrie said at the time it must have been Eric’s fault. I heard other people say that, too. It was a school night, I remember that much. Late spring. In fact, it was just a few weeks before high school graduation. It was after dinner, later in the evening. Just getting dark, I think. We heard sirens and went outside. That house—” She gestured at a two-story stucco next door to the Patchetts’ house. “That’s the one. The garage was in flames and the fire trucks were heading up the street. Something like that is so dangerous, with all the trees around here. And who knows what they were storing in the garage, if my garage is any indication. My husband was one for keeping old cans of paint and varnish, that sort of thing.”
“Why did your daughter say it must have been Eric’s fault?”
She gestured at the house again. “Well, according to Carrie, Eric and the man who lived there got into some sort of a fight, a dispute. I don’t remember what it was about, or if I ever knew. But it escalated. You know how these things happen. Carrie said that Eric threatened the man, said he would make him pay. I don’t know when that happened, but then that man’s garage went up in flames and the rumor going around was that Eric set the fire. I didn’t believe it at first, but Carrie was sure it was true. That’s when she told me about Eric getting even.”
“Does the man still live in the house?”
She shook her head. “No. It’s been years since it happened. He moved after that. He repaired the damage and put the house on the market. I think he just wanted to get out of the neighborhood. I don’t know where he went.”
With a little prompting, Bonnie Redeker recalled the name of the homeowner whose garage went up in flames, adding that he’d worked in nearby Walnut Creek. That, plus the address of the house he’d sold, would help me trace him. I wanted to hear what he had to say about the fire. A visit to the Lafayette Police Department should provide me with a copy of the report on the fire. Given the birth date I’d seen on Slade’s rental application, he would have been eighteen at the time of the garage fire.
I’d already decided it would be a good idea to seek out Carrie Redeker. Was she still in the area? No, her mother told me. Carrie was in graduate school at the University of California in Los Angeles. I could track her down using the student locator on the UCLA website.
The terrier tugged on his leash, eager to get on with his walk. Ms. Redeker and I parted company, she and the dog heading down to the corner mailbox, me to my car.
I drove back to downtown Lafayette. The area was full of restaurants and shops, ranging from plain and budget to upscale, expensive and trendy. I turned off Mount Diablo Boulevard, the main thoroughfare, onto Lafayette Circle and made a left into the parking lot of a small shopping plaza. After feeding quarters into the parking meter, I walked up the sidewalk, past a coffee shop with tables, all of them full, arrayed in front of the plate glass window. Inside the shop, a barista worked the espresso machine while another took a pastry from a glass-fronted bakery case.
I moved through a small landscaped area with a couple of benches, then stopped. The sign near the front door said that Bluebird, the vintage clothing store, was open from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. A blue canvas awning hung over the door and the display window. A set of wind chimes made of small metal birds hung from the awning. A large terra-cotta planter to one side of the door held an assortment of spring annuals, including velvety purple and yellow pansies and a mix of petunias ranging from pink to red to yellow. A decorative garden stake topped with a glass bird rose from the planter. On this pleasant spring day, the shop door was propped open and a breeze stirred the wind chimes into a tinkling musical sound. Near the door, a large stainless steel bowl held water for dogs who might be accompanying their people on a shopping expedition.
The display of clothing and jewelry in the shop window featured a spring palette of pink, yellow and green. An elaborately beaded dress from the 1920s draped a faceless white mannequin. The dress was gorgeous, with glittering green beads sewn in patterns on a rich peach chiffon. I strolled into the shop and saw a similar dress, this one pale blue with silver and gold beads. I leaned closer and peered at the price tag dangling discreetly from a shoulder strap. Ouch! I wouldn’t be adding any beaded dresses to my wardrobe any time soon.
“Let me know if I can help you with something.” The voice belonged to a woman who stood near the glass-fronted counter. She was about my height, and she looked cool and put-together in beige linen slacks with a lavender blouse. She was in her mid-fifties, I guessed. Her shoulder-length dark hair was threaded with gray. The angular planes of her face reminded me of the photos I’d seen of Slade. This must be Millicent Patchett.
“Thanks, I’m just looking for now.” I hadn’t yet decided how best to approach her. Better to observe and listen for the time being.
I moved on to a rack holding jackets and pulled out one at random. It was charcoal gray with pinstripes and shoulder pads, just the thing that Joan Crawford might have worn in Mildred Pierce. Definitely a style that didn’t appeal to me.
A voice called, “Check this out.” I looked up. A young woman with long blond hair emerged from a dressing room, which was cordoned off from the sales floor by a curtain made of fabric printed with flowers and bluebirds. Opposite this was a three-panel mirror. Now the young woman laughed and pirouetted in front of the mirror, showing off a wide skirt from the 1950s. The tan, calf-length skirt with a wide waistband looked good with her red tank top.
“I think it looks great,” Millicent said, walking back to where the young woman stood. “It’s a good fit.”
“It’s a start,” the other woman said. “What I’m looking for is Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday.” She reached up and pulled her long hair back from her face. “Of course, Audrey had that short Italian haircut. I’m not going to cut my hair, but I can tie it back. A ponytail. Or maybe a barrette.”
“Got it.” Millicent sorted through the blouses on a nearby rack and pulled out three of them, all in white. “Any of these would work. In the movie, she was wearing a white blouse with buttons up the front and the sleeves rolled up. And she wore a kerchief tied around her neck.”
“Plus those open-toed shoes with the little straps around the ankles,” the customer added. “Do you have anything like that?”
“Espadrilles. We got a pair in just a few days ago. Let me check.” Millicent called, “Rosalie. The brown espadrilles that came in the other day. Where did we put those?”
Rosalie Benson, Millicent’s business partner, appeared from the back of the shop. She was a good six inches shorter, and a few years older, than Millicent. She wore a pair of blue slacks and an oversized floral print blouse that hid her stocky frame.
“They’re back in the stock room,” Rosalie said. “I haven’t priced them yet.” She disappeared and came back a moment later, carrying the shoes. “Here they are. They’re a size seven.”
The customer took the shoes and examined them. “I do wear a seven, but those look a bit small. I hope they fit. They would be perfect with the clothes.” She returned to the dressing room, carrying the shoes and several blouses.
I took a skirt from the rack. Here was the cinched waist and full skirt popular in the 1950s and what’s more, this was the genuine article—a poodle skirt. It was hideous, a particularly nauseating shade of green decorated with yellow appliqués of poodles. I shook my head and put it back on the rack.
Millicent and Rosalie had walked to the counter where the cash register stood and were talking, heads bent toward one another. Then I heard the chirp of a cell phone. Millicent stepped away from the counter and pulled a phone from the pocket of her beige slacks. She looked at the readout. “Oh, it’s Byron.”
Millicent walked past me, heading out to the sidewalk. I made my way toward the front of the store, checking out some blouses on another rack as I eavesdropped on Millicent’s end of the phone call. “Well, yes, I made a reservation for the four of us. Six-thirty, right.” She paused, listening. “I know. But if their flight is on time, that shouldn’t be a problem.” Another pause. “Okay. I’ll meet you at the restaurant. If there’s any problem, call or send a text.”
She ended the call and re-entered the shop, heading for the counter where Rosalie was sifting through the contents of a small cardboard box. “Are you getting caught up with the paperwork? You said something about coming in early to do that.”
“Got put off again,” Rosalie said. “I had to meet that guy about repairing my garage door. I’ll come in early tomorrow or the next day.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” Millicent said. “I’ll be in late day after tomorrow. I have a dental appointment at ten.”
Rosalie nodded. “All right. Just so one of us is here to open up.” She pointed at the box. “Take a look at the jewelry I picked up at that estate sale last weekend. This brooch is Bakelite and so are these bracelets.”
The two women bent over the box, examining the jewelry. Millicent took out a silver necklace and dangled it from her fingers. “This one’s Art Deco. Beautiful.” She put the necklace back in the box and looked past Rosalie as the customer came out of the dressing room, wearing the whole Roman Holiday–inspired outfit. “That looks wonderful,” she said as she walked back to the woman. “The blouse and shoes really pull it together.”
I looked at my watch. I wasn’t sure I could learn anything else by hanging out here. At some point I’d have to talk with Millicent. But now didn’t seem like a good time.
I walked over to the coffee shop, where I got myself a latte for the road. As I stepped outside, car keys in hand, I saw a red Ford Escape pull into a vacant parking space just across from me. It was covered with dust and there were two people inside. The driver’s-side door opened, and a man got out. He was about six feet tall, I guessed, with a medium build in his faded jeans and yellow T-shirt. His dark hair was on the long side, brushing his shoulders and falling into his face. He stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders, as though loosening the kinks after sitting in one position for a long time.
Speak of the devil. Slade.
Behind me, an annoyed voice said, “Excuse me, you’re blocking the door.”
“Oh, sorry.” I moved away from the door and a woman bustled past me, coffee in hand.
I drifted down the sidewalk, watching as Laurette, wearing olive green slacks and a lighter green shirt, got out of the Ford’s passenger seat. She put her hands in the small of her back, leaning backwards. Then she ran a hand through her brown hair and turned, looking around her as Slade fed coins into the parking meter.
Laurette had told her family that she and Slade were on a road trip and that they’d eventually return to New Orleans. But the Bay Area is over two thousand miles from NOLA. That was a long road trip.
Slade walked to the back of the Ford and I could see him full on. Heretofore I’d only seen photographs and videos. Now I saw that he had the same narrow, high-cheekboned face as his mother, notable for a discontented scowl. Attitude, he certainly had it. His frown smoothed a bit as Laurette joined him.
“So which one is your mom’s shop?” she asked.
His voice was the same rough tenor I’d heard on the video. “That one over there, with the blue awning.”
“Ooh, vintage clothes. I love to poke around in places like that. And look at that beaded dress in the window. It’s scrumptious.” She took a step in the direction of the shop.
His hand snaked out and caught her wrist, stopping her forward movement. “We don’t have time for you to go shopping right now.”
Laurette looked taken aback. She pulled her hand away from his and rubbed her wrist, as though it hurt. “Hey, lighten up. I’m not shopping. Just looking. And I’d love to meet your mother.”
He backtracked. “Look, I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s just that things between me and my mother, well, sometimes it’s a little—tense. You know what I mean?”
Laurette shrugged, ready to forgive him. “Sure. That’s cool. I understand how it can be with mothers.”
“I just need a little time with her, alone,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to her later. After all, we’re going to be here for a while. Just let me talk with her. I won’t be long. Then we can find a place to stay and chill.”
“That would be good.” Laurette stretched, then reached up and again ran a hand through her long hair. “After that drive from Reno, I could use a nice hot shower and a nap. I’ll get some coffee and sit right here until you’re ready.”
As Laurette headed into the coffee shop, I strolled toward the vintage shop, a few steps behind Slade. I took a seat on one of the benches, set down my latte and took out my cell phone. It looked as though I was reading a text message or checking my email. In reality, I hit the camera button and started recording a video.
Slade stood for a moment in the open doorway, long enough for his mother to see him.
Millicent came outside, her voice low and urgent. It was clear she wasn’t happy that her son had turned up. “What are you doing here?”
Sarcasm colored his words. “What, you’re not glad to see me? Your only son, home again, to the bosom of his family.”
“It’s only been a year since you moved to Austin,” she snapped. “You just had to leave the Bay Area, because the music scene was better in Austin and you really liked the place. Or so you said. But you were only there a few months. Then you went off to New Orleans. Again, you said the music scene was much better there and you loved the town. And again, you’ve been there just a few months. Now you’re back here. Why? Please explain it to me. What are you doing back in the Bay Area?”
He shrugged. “I decided to come home for a while.”
“And do what? Play music? There aren’t as many opportunities here as there are in Austin or New Orleans. That’s what you told me when you left.” Millicent stopped, looking frazzled. “I can’t continue to subsidize you, sending you money every time you move somewhere or lose another job. You’re twenty-seven, Eric. You’re a grown man. You need to settle into something.”
Slade’s face had taken on a look that I could read very well. It said he’d heard it all before and he didn’t have much patience with his mother’s views.
Millicent shook her head. “Why are you here? What else is going on? Eric, why do you keep running from place to place?”
I wondered about that, too.
Slade wiped the annoyed look from his face. His voice took on a placating tone. “Look, let’s not argue about it. I have a friend with me. We’re tired and we need a place to crash. I thought we could stay with you for a few days.”
Interesting. Slade had already told Laurette they were going to find a place to stay. That implied a hotel. But if they could stay with his mother at no cost, I saw the attraction.
That wasn’t happening, though. Millicent was shaking her head. “Oh, no, not with us. You can’t stay there. Not after what happened the last time. Byron won’t hear of it.”
“Byron, Byron,” he interrupted. “What happened last time was an accident.”
I would have given anything to know what happened the last time Slade stayed at his mother’s house.
I watched Millicent’s face and body language, full of tension, as though she was a veteran of many battles with her son—and between her son and her husband. I had a feeling things had been rocky ever since she married Byron. Just what was her relationship with her son? I could see that they were at odds over her husband. But did they clash on other things? She certainly didn’t seem happy to see him.
“You can’t stay with us,” she said again. “Besides, Byron has friends coming into town and they’ll be staying with us.”
“Fine, fine. Whatever Byron wants is more important than what I want.” Slade brought forth an elaborate, put-upon sigh. “Well, I can’t afford to stay in a hotel. What about the condo?”
“I have a tenant moving in on Friday,” Millicent countered.
“Okay, then give me some cash so I can get a room for the night. Or I guess I could sleep in my car. Park it in front of the house and come in to use the bathroom. Wouldn’t that be fun? I’m sure the neighbors would talk.”
He was good with the guilt trip. Now I understood. This whole exercise was designed to get money from Millicent. And his tactic was working. Evidently it usually did.
Millicent compressed her lips into a tight line. “All right,” she said finally. She went back inside the shop and returned a moment later, carrying a wallet. She opened it and took out several bills, handing them to Slade. He gave her a perfunctory “Thanks.” Then he turned away, a triumphant look on his face as he shoved the money into the pocket of his jeans.
Millicent stood in the shop doorway, watching him go with a troubled look on her face. Behind her, Rosalie’s expression showed equal parts sympathy and irritation—sympathy for Millicent, no doubt, and irritation at Slade, who’d had a lot of practice manipulating his mother, from the looks of things. I had the feeling Rosalie had seen this scene played out before. She’d be a good one to talk to. I was sure she could give me an earful about Millicent and her relationship with her son.
I had noted the partners’ earlier conversation. The day after tomorrow, Millicent had a 10 a.m. dental appointment, but Rosalie would be at the shop early. That would be a good time to approach her. But I’d better have a story ready. She’d be reluctant to talk about her business partner unless there was a good reason.