It being a Wednesday and October not a big car-buying month in the first place, Big Rick Stevens’s dealership wasn’t busy, so the moment I stepped out of my truck I found myself swarmed by car sales reps.
“You here to trade that in?” asked one, a young guy who didn’t look much older than Dylan.
“Sorry, I’m just here to see Big Rick,” I said, waving them all away. “It’s a personal matter.”
I was certain I remembered where Big Rick’s glass-walled office was located—down the hall, last office on the left. I was right. The door was open, and Big Rick, appearing only a little older and a little heavier than he’d been when he sold me my pickup, looked up with an expectant smile.
“Theodora Bentley, isn’t it?”
“Good memory.” I entered, only partially closing the glass door behind me. Like I had years earlier, I felt like I was in a fishbowl. I could hear soft conversation down the hall, so that gave me the courage to start right in. “Why did you change your name?”
“Excuse me?”
“You used to be Richard Caton Strayle. I’m just curious why the change, that’s all.”
He put down the legal-sized papers he’d been looking at, but the smile was still there. “Oh, I doubt that’s all, Ms. Bentley.”
“Actually, it’s Bentley-Rejas now. I changed my name, too.”
“When you married the sheriff. Nice guy, I hear.”
“I think so.” Except for his attraction to beautiful platinum blondes.
“You’re not here to buy another truck are you? But if you are, I’d be glad to give you a Friend-of the-Boss discount.”
“Is that a bribe?”
Over the silence I was able to hear a clatter of footsteps down the hall, and a female salesperson explaining to a female customer the benefits and drawbacks of four-wheel-drive vehicles. The customer was worried about the cost—not of the vehicle itself, but with rising gas prices, and how much it would cost her to run a four-wheeler.
Big Rick finally spoke. “Bribe? Oh, please. I wouldn’t be foolish enough to try and bribe the sheriff’s wife. I was just offering you a good deal, that’s all. Your truck’s what, eight years old now? How many miles do you have on her?”
Interesting. The pronoun for boats and ships was usually female; this was the first time I’d ever heard a pickup truck called “her.” Big Rick couldn’t have known that my truck’s name was Brad, after one of my favorite insurance commercials. I appreciated his effort, though. It was a further sign that motor vehicles had always been an important factor in his life. Did he still have the 1965 Shelby Cobra CSX 8000 Roadster from the newspaper photo? Or had that gone the way of his Brentwood mansion?
“Why are you really here, Mrs. Bentley-Rejas?”
“Call me Teddy.”
“And you can continue to call me Big Rick. The other name…” He looked down at the stack of legal papers. “Well, it brings back a time I’d rather forget. Besides, Stevens was my mother’s maiden name. Although the lady had her faults—Jesus, what a temper—most of my memories of her are pleasant.”
“And it’s easier to keep the same initials.”
“That, too. Now again, at the risk of sounding redundant, why are you here?”
“To find out why you’ve been hiding out.”
One side of his mouth pulled up. “Especially now that the two men who screwed me over have been murdered?”
“Correct.” Before entering his office, I’d noticed another salesman right across the hall from us—a big, burly guy. So was his customer. Nice to know, if I had to shout for help.
I doubted that would happen, though. Despite my nosiness, Big Rick’s demeanor remained calm, if careful. “You think that, after all my ‘hiding out,’ I’ll finally break down and tell you the truth?” A question, not a statement. The open joy in his eyes when he’d had his photograph taken in his beloved Shelby Cobra was long gone, replaced by an intimidating watchfulness.
“What do you have to lose, Big Rick?”
That made him chuckle. “You’re really something, you know that? But yeah, I get it. What do I have to lose? The old life may be gone, but I have this new one, and I like it a lot.” He flashed a gold wedding ring I hadn’t noticed before. “Noelle—thank God she’s not an actress—and the kids. They make up for everything.”
“Even the money Donaldson and Flaherty stole from you?”
He rested his hands on the legal documents. “Granted, I no longer have my Hollywood millions, but I’m doing fine. Great cars for a fair price. No one gets cheated at Big Rick’s. At night I can go to bed and sleep the sleep of the angels, which wasn’t always true in the old days. I was always up half the night worrying about this or that, and who was going to come for me next. You want to know why I changed my name? Legally, by the way. Because I didn’t want any vestiges of my old life trailing after me, and that included my former business partners.”
I wasn’t sure I bought it. “You had to have known they’d moved up here and were producing Tippy-Toe & Tinker. Why didn’t you go after them for the money the court awarded you? That judgment must still be in effect.”
“Oh, it is. Believe me, it is.” A cagy smile. “Sure, I knew they’d moved their sleazy selves to San Sebastian, so I did a little snooping around and found out exactly how much money Tippy-Toe & Tinker was bringing in. It wasn’t as much as you’d think. Donaldson was basically living off his wife—she’s some high-powered dot-com attorney in Silicon Valley—and there was Flaherty, living on some sleazy old barge…”
“It’s a sailboat. And it’s not sleazy, just needs some upkeep.” Why I felt I had to defend a boat, I don’t know, but I did.
Down the hall, the two women were still discussing the expense of running a four-wheel drive. The customer had begun thinking about a Toyota Land Cruiser, which excited the saleswoman. Or maybe a Land Rover, which thrilled her even more.
After another long silence, Big Rick started talking again. “Okay, so I know nothing about boats, just cars. Sorry to have offended. Back to Flaherty. I ran into him at the mall one day, and realized immediately that something was seriously wrong. Physically, I mean. He looked like hell. When I said hello, it was obvious he didn’t even recognize me, yet we’d shared the same office for years. Long story short, neither of those guys was doing as well as me, so what would have been the point of dragging that old lawsuit through the courts again?”
He paused, and his face hardened. “However, once I read the announcement in the paper that their cute little TV show about dinosaurs was being syndicated, I changed my mind. Now they had money worth going after.” With that, he picked up the sheaf of legal papers his hands had been resting on and waved them at me. “And that’s exactly what I was about to do, until, well, you know. So if you think my grudge against those two embezzling bastards turned me into a killer, think again. Theoretically, they were worth more to me alive than dead.”
Stating the obvious, I said, “You can always sue their estates.”
“And join the parade in court.” For a moment, his face was sour, then it brightened as he leaned over his desk and said, “Say, I’ve got a beautiful Nissan Titan out there, bright blue, V8 engine, priced to sell, and you’d look great behind the wheel. Why don’t you…?”
After the test drive, during which I felt like a flea on an elephant, I returned to my loyal old pickup and went over everything Big Rick had told me. Some of it I bought; some of it I didn’t. The alibi he’d finally offered me looked good, though. At the time of Donaldson’s death, he had been sitting in his glass-enclosed office closing a deal on a new Chevy Silverado 3500HD. And like during all deals at Big Rick’s, the surveillance cameras had been busily recording.
When I reached the house, I found yet another element had been added to the family drama—the arrival of Lauren’s husband, Jon Overholdt.
Fresh off the plane from Burbank Bob Hope International Airport, he sat at the dining table, sharing coffee and scones with Joe—who had returned home for lunch—Lauren, Colleen, and Dylan. In between bites, he was comparing San Sebastian weather to the weather back in the LA area.
“We’re warmer than usual, ten to fifteen more degrees than you are here, and… Oh, hi, you must be Teddy!” Big, bright grin.
“Sure am,” I replied, sitting next to Joe and taking a scone for myself.
You’d think that given the dynamics involved, the Joe & Jon Show would be rife with tension, but it wasn’t. Instead the two men had bonded over their shared fondness for Dylan, who now enjoyed the new privilege of having two dads. As if by unspoken agreement, their connection to Lauren wasn’t discussed. When I snuck a glance at her, she looked relieved. So did Dylan and Colleen.
As we talked, I studied Jon Overholdt. He was a tall man, sinewy instead of beefy, and no stranger to the gym. Certainly strong enough to wield a tire iron. And unlike Lauren, he obviously had no fear of flying. While the man with the engaging grin didn’t look like a killer, killers seldom looked like killers. They usually look like your neighbors, which they sometimes are. As to motive, that was a given. Cliff Flaherty had once hurt Overholdt’s beautiful wife, and what loving husband wouldn’t relish a chance to take his revenge?
However, the scar on Lauren’s face was an old one, barely noticeable. And besides, how would Jon Overholdt know that Flaherty, after his Hollywood career had tanked, was residing on a boat in Gunn Landing Harbor? It seemed so unlikely that I brought my attention back to the scone-fest.
“Not that I believe in global warming or any of that alarmist stuff, but it does make you think,” he was saying to Joe.
“I hear ya,” Joe said back, nodding sagely.
“If we don’t do something about it, we’re all going to die. First the plants, then the animals, then us.” This, from Dylan.
“Say, I hear you guys have some fruit trees in back,” Overholdt continued, after agreeing we were all in trouble. “What kind?”
Now it was Colleen’s turn to shine. “Orange and apricot. Joe’s father planted them when he built the house. We also have a large kitchen garden. Would you like to see it?”
Overholdt’s grin grew. “Would I!”
With that, everyone except for Lauren and me headed for the backyard. Once they were gone, I turned to her and asked, “What’s your husband doing here?”
“He thinks he can drag me back to Burbank, not that there’s any chance of that happening. Men, you know.”
“Yeah, I know. Men.”
For the first time, we actually smiled at each other.
After the kitchen garden tour was over, Lauren and her husband left for the San Sebastian Hyatt for a little “alone time,” as she phrased it, leaving me to suffer Joe’s questions about what I’d been doing all day. My answers involved a certain amount of fibbing, using the word “library” twice, and “pinball” three times.
“You’d be surprised how much fun pinball is,” I finished. “Why don’t we go together some evening when you’re not mopping up wrecks on the One?”
He shook his head. “Sounds like fun, but you know me. When I have time off, I like to spend time with you and the kids on the Merilee.”
Joe didn’t have the makings of a sailor, but since our marriage he had learned to enjoy the lazy pace of life at the harbor. It was the opposite of a cop’s life, which was three-quarters boredom, one quarter heartbreak.
My fibs about my own life having passed muster, he headed back to his office. As soon as his cruiser was out of the driveway, I made a few calls. The first was to Gordo Walken. After some initial wariness, the puppeteer agreed to meet me tomorrow at JimBob’s Donuts, a place that advertised itself as “Where the grub is sweet and the calories cheap.” He sounded less morose when I told him the grub would be on me.
My other calls included those to Karla Dollar, Bev Beaumont, and Ansel “Bird” Yates, all Tippy-Toe & Tinker alumni. I called a couple of harbor friends who had experienced run-ins with Flaherty, namely Walt McAdam and Linda Cushing. Other liveaboarders had probably undergone similar situations, but at this point, I had no names. Maybe Walt and Linda could help.
Calls completed—and on a few occasions, messages left—I left to do something many people would consider heartless.
Interview a grieving widow.
* * *
At the outset, Gloria Marquand-Donaldson, the producer’s fifth wife, didn’t appear to be particularly upset over her husband’s recent demise, and our talk quickly turned from “Who are you and what do you want to talk to me about?” to “Marty was no saint, but neither am I, so let’s just get on with this. Understand, though, that I won’t give you any information which might have a negative impact on the negotiations he and his partner entered into with CFZ Productions or any impending lawsuits that might arise therewith.”
“Sounds fair to me,” I agreed.
Gloria was a bone-thin brunette of about fifty, and the severe black dress made her look even thinner. Her unlined face would have better fit a thirty-year-old, whispering discreetly of a top-flight cosmetic surgeon, possibly the same one my mother used.
With a chilly smile, the grieving widow said, “Then let’s move it along. I have a casket to pick out.”
Unnerved in the face of such briskness, I let her lead me into a gray-on-gray living room that fairly screamed for a spot of color. Even the large painting on the wall across from the gray rock fireplace was a medley of grays. I’d seem homier hotel rooms. Then again, she spent most of the week in San Jose, didn’t she? I wondered about the decor of her other home. Same old gray? Or black-on-black?
Taking a seat on an uncomfortable gray chair, I took out the notebook I’d brought with me, only to have her say, “Put that away. Anything I tell you is off the record.”
Had she confused me with a journalist?
When I started to clarify the reason for my visit, she interrupted. “Yes, yes, you’re the sheriff’s wife, I know that. And from what I’ve read about you, you may be nosy enough to find out who killed my husband. That chief deputy of your husband’s certainly hasn’t.”
“Well, Deputy Gutierrez has to follow proper police procedure.”
That wintery smile again. “But you don’t.”
“Like you said, let’s just move it along, okay? So…” I took a deep breath. “Who do you think killed your husband?”
“Someone connected to the show, of course.”
“Tippy-Toe & Tinker?”
“That’s the only show Martin and Cliff were involved in now, unlike in the old days when they’d have a dozen pots boiling on the stove.”
“Do you have a favorite suspect?”
She thought for a moment; after all, she was an attorney. Then she said, “I’m not making any accusations, you understand, but Marty once told me he was concerned about Karla Dollar, that puppeteer who plays, ah, played Rosie the triceratops. She’s a felon, you know.”
Yes, I knew. In order to get her son into a good school, Karla had lied, and wound up serving three years in Chino for it. Gloria Marquand-Donaldson saw only the crime, whereas I saw a mother’s love. “Do you have any children?” I asked her, although I already knew the answer.
“No, thank God. But I understand what you’re getting at. You’re trying to minimize the fact that she broke the law. If every woman whose child was bullied resorted to committing a felony, God only knows where we’d be. Karla’s a smart woman. She knew what she was in for if she got caught, but she went ahead and falsified those papers anyway. Which was Martin’s whole point. Her past behavior proved that when the law didn’t suit her, she’d simply break it.”
As opposed to finding legal ways to ruin someone’s life. I thought back about Donaldson’s and Flaherty’s history of predatory business dealings. They’d cheated others—legally—for money, never for love.
That thought about love made me ask my next question. “You’re Martin’s fifth wife, correct?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Fourth. And as for me, I’ve only been married twice.”
Same with me, so no judgment there, but I just had to ask the next question. “Do you inherit his estate?”
To my surprise, she laughed. “Jesus, Teddy, you’ve really got balls!”
I don’t know what I’d expected, but laughter wasn’t it. Astonished, I started, “Well, I was just…”
Waving me quiet, she said, “Yeah, yeah, I inherit, but only kinda. Given your own past divorce…” She flashed a grin. “Yes, I looked you up, too. I’m sure you understand the weight of California’s community property laws re divorce, but here’s something you might not know, that community property also affects inheritance when someone dies intestate. A couple of years ago he inherited several hundred thou from some long-lost relative, but thanks to his lack of planning, I won’t see a penny. I sure as hell have to pay his bills, though.”
“Martin didn’t have a will?”
“Sloppy of him, wasn’t it? But don’t go worrying about me. I’m already well-provided for, and it happened the old-fashioned way—my own family inheritance.”
A light went off in my head. Marquand. Marquand Oranges! Some sleuth I was, not connecting Gloria’s maiden name—Marquand—to the family famed for vast land-holdings in the Inland Empire, southern California’s verdant agricultural center.
As I was still adjusting to the shock, she added, “I had no reason to kill poor Marty, not a financial one, anyway, even though I’ll eventually reap the benefits of the Tippy-Toe & Tinker syndication. Isn’t that sweet?” Another bright smile.
“And while we’re still on the subject of wills, dear Teddy, let me tell you about the one I myself notarized a couple of months ago. I can tell you this because a reporter from the San Sebastian Journal has already asked my opinion on it, which is how I know the news will appear in the paper tomorrow. The cops are aware of that particular will, too, and earlier today they stopped by to question me. I gave them a little more information than I gave the press.” Here every trace of her former humor vanished as she eyed me like a hawk ready to pounce on some unfortunate creature. “Despite, or maybe because of his ill-health, Cliff Flaherty made a will, and guess who’s going to get his oh-so-recent ill-gotten gains?”
Although I feared I could already guess the answer, I asked anyway. “Who?”
“Dylan Ellis.”