Valley of Shadows Page 6

  When he came back out to the hallway, Nora was still waiting for him at the far end. He stopped halfway and smiled at her. He slapped his thigh and called her name, but she wouldn’t budge. “Come on, girl,” he said cheerily. “There’s nothing to be frightened of.” The dog squirmed in place and barked once sharply, but she wouldn’t come to him. He could hear Mrs. Dodd’s voice in his head: They can see ghosts, you know.

  When he reached the landing, Nora turned and scrambled ahead of him, elated to be going back down the stairs. He caught up with her in the foyer, where she was sniffing the crack under the front door and pawing at the baseboard.

  “All right, all right,” he said. “We’re done. We can leave.” She slipped out through the door as soon as he’d pulled it wide enough and darted down the porch steps to the lawn. She waited there for him while he sorted through the keys again and then turned the deadbolt behind them.

  He left the dog to sniff around the untrimmed lawn and went around to the back of the big house to where the lawn sloped down to a small, sandy cove and a private dock. A sailboat was moored at the dock’s far end. It was bare-masted, the sail wrapped in a blue sun cover along the boom.

  The dog trotted around the side of the house, following his scent. Keegan called to her and then started along the dock. The decking swayed and shifted beneath his feet, undulating gently on the bay’s protected waters. Breeze off the distant ocean pressed Keegan’s trousers against his thighs. The boat’s christened name was scrolled on the transom in gold paint: The Seven of Swords. Keegan paced the dock alongside the craft to get an idea of its size. It must have been more than thirty feet from stem to stern, with teakwood decks and three oval portholes on either side of the cabin. A pair of white rubber fenders, pressed between the hull and the dock, squeaked as the boat rose and fell. The yacht wasn’t ostentatious as far as the vessels anchored in Newport went, but it wasn’t modest either.

  The dog had followed him out as far as the first piling and then she’d stopped and plopped down on the dock to watch him.

  When he turned back, the dog ran ahead of him to the lawn and waited for him there. She didn’t seem to be enjoying this outing as much as Keegan had thought she would. She seemed skittish to find herself in such an open and unfamiliar place. She was a cottage dog, an office dog, a dog who liked urban parks; here there was too much sky and wind.

  She jumped into the car as soon as Keegan opened the door and then scrambled across to her passenger seat, happy to be leaving. Keegan got in and pulled the door closed. He would drop her off at the office with Mrs. Dodd before he headed to Ida Fletcher’s house in Bel Air. The poor thing had had adventures enough for one day.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE BEL AIR house also lay beyond an imposing gate. Keegan pulled as far onto the shoulder of Monticello Drive as he could, to get clear of the road. He put his car in neutral, set the brake, and left it idling. He took the ring of keys up to the gate. He found the padlock open, though, which surprised him. It was hanging by its U-shaped shackle. The hasp, too, was unlatched. Ida Fletcher would not be pleased. Any old conspirator passing by on the street could have swung the gate open and slipped inside to plot her downfall. Keegan pushed open the gate, got back in his idling car, and pulled it through.

  The house at the end of the cobblestone driveway was broad and imposing, much more the prototypical mansion than the Newport house had been. It was Greek revival, Keegan guessed, all flat surfaces and Doric columns, symmetrical rows of rectilinear windows gazing blankly down on a sloping lawn and a row of evenly spaced cypress trees. A red Jaguar was parked at the foot of the house’s broad front steps. Keegan pulled in close to its back bumper and parked.

  He got out of his MG and looked in the other car’s side window. A man’s blue blazer was draped over the passenger seat and a poorly folded map lay scrunched between the windshield and dashboard. There had been quite a few car registrations in the old lady’s strongbox—including a Jaguar, Keegan seemed to remember. It probably belonged to her, but what was it doing here? Had she actually ventured out of the Chateau Marmont?

  Keegan climbed the front steps to the mansion’s paneled doorway. He had the key—it was somewhere on the ring he held—but he rang the doorbell. He stepped back and listened, then stepped up and rang it again. Footsteps approached on the other side, and the deadbolt scraped back. One of the big doors swung back.

  A young man—maybe thirty—stood in the opening, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was handsome—matineeidol handsome—with fine dark features and a rakish tilt to the head. The clothes he wore—a blue silk shirt and twill slacks—looked expensive but slept in. His shaggy dark brown hair was rakishly unkempt. Perhaps Keegan had wakened him. More likely the tousled look was a carefully arranged effect. He seemed to have a good sense of his own good looks.

  “And who might you be?” the young man wanted to know. He spoke in a pleasing baritone, the cigarette bobbing in his lips.

  “I might be Jim Keegan,” Keegan said. “Am I at the right address? I didn’t expect anyone to be home.”

  The young man stood back and swung the doors wider, as if to invite Keegan in. “I just got in yesterday,” he said. “Where is everybody?”

  Keegan made no move to enter the house. None of this made sense to him. “Is this Ida Fletcher’s house?” he asked.

  The young man nodded, as if the answer couldn’t be more obvious. “Twelve Monticello,” he said. “My key still fits the lock. But where the hell did everybody go?”

  Keegan still stood, bewildered. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But who are you?”

  The young man nodded like he’d forgotten his manners. He tugged down his shirt front and stood straighter.

  “I’m Danny,” the young man said. “Daniel David Church.” He clicked his heels and bowed. “The Prodigal Nephew has returned from distant lands to the bosom of his household.” He turned and swept out an arm to take in the whole house behind him. “Though, as I’ve mentioned, said household is nowhere to be seen.” He turned back and held out a hand to Keegan with a formality that seemed both ceremonious and mocking.

  Keegan nodded. It was sinking in. This kid was the old lady’s nephew, the heir in Ida Fletcher’s will. But wasn’t he supposed to be living in Paris? Keegan shook Church’s hand. The grip was firm, but the skin was soft. This Daniel David Church struck Keegan as a young man in good health who had gone out of his way to avoid anything that might be classified as work.

  “I take it no one was expecting me,” Church went on. “I had to take a taxi from LAX. Aunt Ida must not be opening her mail. But mea culpa. I have, perhaps, not written to the old dear as often as I should.” He took the cigarette from his mouth and turned from the door. “Where is my sainted auntie, by the way?” Now that he was facing into the house, his voice had taken on an echo.

  Keegan stepped into the broad marble entryway and took a quick look around at the sweeping double staircase, the lofty molding, the grand chandelier that dangled over the expanse of pearly tile. Keegan had to admit the place made a dramatic first impression. He looked at the young man, who was walking away from him across the entryway, apparently expecting Keegan to follow. Someday all this would be his. What was it like to know you would be so rich? Nothing would be beyond the kid’s grasp with Ida Fletcher’s kind of money—cars, starlets, tropical vacations, maybe even a ticket to a World Series game.

  Keegan closed the front door and followed Church through an arch and down a vaulted corridor.

  “I’ve never seen the place so empty,” the nephew said, his voice reverberating in the tiled hallway. “Did she have one of her little spells and fire everyone in sight?” He turned back to Keegan. “So, when should we expect her to be home?”

  “We shouldn’t,” Keegan said, taking in the row of urns that lined the hallway niches. “She’s staying elsewhere.”

  “Newport!” the young man said, turning away again and heading farther along the hallway. “I should have called
there first, of course. This is fine sailing weather after all.”

  Keegan shook his head. “She’s elsewhere, elsewhere,” he said. He didn’t like to admit it, but the house’s opulence was a little distracting. “I’m not really at liberty to say.”

  The nephew entered a broad room that had an enormous claw-footed billiard table at its center. A vast fireplace—one Keegan could have stood in without ducking—took up most of one side of the room. On the farthest wall, tall windows ran floor to ceiling. A pair of French doors offered a glimpse of a formal, perfectly symmetrical back garden. A full bar—all brass and mahogany—was built into the corner, with a row of four stools.

  “I don’t think she knows you’re here,” Keegan said, still a little distracted. His voice echoed back at him.

  “Well, then she’s in for a pleasant surprise, is she not?” the nephew said. His bright, dapper voice seemed tailor-made for these cavernous rooms. Church went to the bar and stubbed out his cigarette in a big crystal ashtray. He sat down on one of the stools. “I’ve been in Paris for a bit. Haven’t been home for…” He picked up a powder blue pack of Gauloises cigarettes from the bar, rattled one loose, and put it to his lips. “Heavens,” he said, “it’s been almost three years.” He pulled a sleek silver lighter from his trouser pocket and lit the cigarette. “‘I wasted time, and now doth time waste me,’” he quoted, releasing a cloud of smoke along with Shakespeare’s borrowed sentiment.

  As first impressions went, the kid struck Keegan as shallow and showy, all crown molding, crystal, and polished brass. He was a peacock, a popinjay. He spoke like he belonged in a Cole Porter song. That kind of glib manner might pass for charm, but only among the Bel Air and Newport crowd. Keegan had met his kind before. The kid had no doubt gone to all the first-rate schools and still come away with a third-rate education—The Bard’s quotes notwithstanding. He was, Keegan suspected, what happened when a man’s only real occupation in life was to bide his time, imbibing in the finer things, until the family fortune finally came his way.

  “I really need to talk to Aunt Ida, you know,” the kid said. “I’ve got a business opportunity. I think she’ll be thrilled.” He took the cigarette from his mouth and spread his hands out on either side of his beaming face—as if he were inviting Keegan to imagine something written in lights on a Broadway marquee. “A bit of old France on Sunset,” he announced. “A traditional brasserie in the heart of Los Angeles.” He dropped his arms and looked at Keegan expectantly. “You know,” he said, “beef bourguignon, steak frites. We’ll brew our own bière de garde. Someone will be crooning at a grand piano.” He nodded, a distant look in his eye, like he was conjuring the whole thing up in his mind. “We’ll call it Le Petit Jardin,” he said. “A cozy, exclusive nightspot like no other.”

  “Sorry, but I’ve never been to France,” Keegan said. “I’m just a local PI. Your aunt hired me to keep an eye on things.” He reached into his jacket pocket, found one of his business cards, and handed it over.

  The kid nodded, looking down at the card. “Well—James—could you tell me where I might find the old dear?” he said. “It’s just that I need to have a word in her ear at the earliest opportunity.”

  Keegan had always been happy to answer to Jimmy or Jim or Keegan—even, in Mrs. Dodd’s case, boss. Nobody called him James. The name sounded odd and blunt in his ears, and he didn’t like it.

  The nephew smoked and watched Keegan, and when Keegan didn’t answer, he filled the silence: “Believe me, I understand your reticence,” he said. “The old girl can be quite the autocrat—but I assure you, she’ll want to see me.”

  Keegan wasn’t sure what to do. Fletcher had made it clear that no one could know where she was staying—but this was her nephew, her heir apparent. Better, Keegan supposed, to play it by the book. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’ve got strict instructions.”

  The nephew nodded. He mulled a moment and then seemed to settle on a more conciliatory tack. He glanced down at the card again, as if he’d already forgotten Keegan’s name. “Well, James, I completely understand,” he said. “I suppose it wouldn’t be against the rules for you to convey a message, would it?”

  Keegan nodded. “I suppose it wouldn’t,” he allowed. “And what’s the message?”

  Church reached over and tapped ash into the crystal ashtray. “That her beloved nephew has returned from afar and is eager to embrace her to his bosom,” he said. He took a pensive draw on his cigarette and blew the smoke out again. “Or words to that effect,” he said.

  Keegan nodded. “I’m sure she’ll be glad—”

  He was cut off when the nephew stood suddenly and walked over to the fireplace, eyes fixed on the blank space above the mantel. “She took down the family portrait,” he said. “It’s been there since time immemorial.” He seemed shocked, even a little distressed.

  “Portrait?” Keegan said.

  The nephew gestured up at the big blank space. “Uncle Leo, Aunt Ida, and me,” he said. “Greta Kempton painted it the year before my uncle died. I was just a pup.” He turned back to Keegan. His brow was now creased with something like consternation. “You don’t suppose I’ve fallen out of favor, do you?”

  Keegan made a helpless gesture. “Look, I’ll see your aunt tomorrow morning,” he said. “I’ll let her know you’re home.”

  The answer didn’t seem to appease Church much. “Are you an educated man, James?” he asked.

  Keegan had, in fact, graduated with a degree in literature from USC. That education had been useful when he was a crime reporter for The Times—but now, as a private detective, he’d learned it was a fact best kept to himself. “Not so anyone would notice,” he said.

  Church nodded. “Well,” he said, “if you were to make an educated guess, what do you think my current status is with her?” He glanced again at the bare wall above the fireplace. “I might be guilty of having let the alliance lapse a bit. And my aunt—well—she’s been known to turn on people.”

  Here was a man accustomed to greased wheels, Keegan thought—shortcuts to every destination, bailouts from every predicament. How drastically his life would change if Ida Fletcher ever turned against him. Keegan chose his words carefully. “I’m sure she’ll be pleased to know you’re home safe,” he said. “All I can do is pass along your message.”

  WHEN KEEGAN GOT back to the office, it was late in the afternoon, and Mrs. Dodd was pretty much packed up and ready to leave for the day. It was a slow Friday after all.

  When he came in, Nora, who had been sleeping under Mrs. Dodd’s desk, got up and stretched and went to stand by the hat rack, where her leash was hanging. She seemed to be ready to call it a day too. Keegan didn’t even bother to take off his jacket.

  “I just met the heir apparent,” Keegan said.

  “The old lady’s nephew?” Mrs. Dodd said. She got her purse out of the file drawer in her desk. “What did you think?”

  “I’m not crazy about him,” Keegan said. “He seems a little oily. A schemer. I wouldn’t trust him.”

  “Well, you don’t really have to,” Mrs. Dodd said reasonably. “He’s Ida Fletcher’s headache, not ours.” She took her coat from the rack and pulled it on.

  Keegan nodded and took the leash off the rack. The dog wagged her tail and then sat, waiting.

  “Wait a minute, boss,” Mrs. Dodd said. “Before we call it a day, I got a little something for you.” She went back to her desk, picked up a white envelope waiting there, and held it out to him.

  Keegan took it from her, apprehensively. “What’s this?”

  “Relax,” she told him. “It won’t bite.”

  The envelope was unsealed but it felt empty. He lifted the flap and found a ticket inside. He pulled it out and looked it over.

  “It’s a good seat,” Mrs. Dodd said. “Pretty close to the action. It’s for tomorrow night.”

  Keegan worked his lips as he tried to comprehend what, exactly, he was holding in his hand: a yellow-and-green ticket to Game Thr
ee of the World Series, right here in LA at Dodger Stadium. “Where did you get this?” he said. “How—?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mrs. Dodd said, pulling the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “Just go. Get out of the house for once. Have a good time.”

  Keegan was genuinely moved. He’d been dogged all day with the disappointment he’d felt since he’d left Lusk’s newsstand. And here it was in his hand, the thing he’d given up hope of ever seeing. “This is too much.”

  Mrs. Dodd had never been one for big shows of emotion. She shook her head at him and turned away, like he was being impossibly sentimental. “Just go to the damn game,” she told him as she headed out the door, “and for God’s sake keep an open mind.” She pulled the door shut behind her.

  She was gone before it occurred to Keegan to ask her what the hell she meant by that last phrase.

  EARLY THE NEXT morning, when Keegan pulled open the Chateau Marmont’s lobby door and stepped inside, he saw the same concierge was on duty at the front desk. Apparently, the man worked weekends.

  Keegan sighed. He’d been having a good day so far. Hell, he had tickets for a World Series game that afternoon; he was practically elated. There was no reason to let some over-starched lackey bring him down. He fixed a smile on his face and let the door swing shut behind him.

  The concierge saw Keegan approach and gripped the desk’s edges. He wore the same white jacket as last time, and he had another bow tie cinched high under his chin. The tie was lavender this time.

  “I’m here to see Ida Fletcher,” Keegan said. “Again.”

  The concierge looked Keegan over, pretending not to recognize him. “I’m afraid we have no guests by that name,” he said. “There’s a payphone out on the street if there’s a direct number you’d like to call.”

  Not today. Not with Keegan’s good mood. Not with Game Three on the horizon. “Well, here’s the thing,” Keegan told him. “I don’t have time for the runaround. I was here last week, and you know it. The old lady is waiting to see me. Get on the phone and let her know I’m here.”