He walked over to the single-car garage. It was detached from the house with a short, roofed breezeway connecting the two structures. It had a copper roof that was being patinaed by the elements. Flowery vines wove through the lattice that covered the breezeway’s sides. The overhead garage door was solid wood with no windows, and it was locked. He went over to the side door of the garage that was under the breezeway. It was also locked. He peered through the upper glass partition. He couldn’t make out much, but there didn’t seem to be a car in there.
He gazed around, took out his pocketknife, inserted it between the lock and doorjamb, and drew the locking bolt back. He pushed against the door and went inside. Archer flipped on the wall light switch and the illumination of one bare lightbulb cast the small space into murky shadows. The place smelled of oil, grease, gas, mothballs, and mildew, but held no car. Yet there was something of interest.
He bent down and looked at the oil slick on the floor. He couldn’t tell if it had come from the blue Ford, but it might have. He also supposed most garage floors had oil slicks on them. However, this one looked quite fresh. And if the Bonhams had been in France for a while, their car couldn’t have made it.
Had the Ford been driven in here after Archer had been attacked? Then it could have been driven away later. Or, again, maybe this slick had nothing to do with the one back on the road. Cedric Bender might be safely in Anaheim, unless he was headed for a slab at the LA County morgue.
There were tools and long-spouted oil cans and the things one normally finds in a garage. He rifled through some old Life and Look magazines in a box. He checked the address labels. They were in the names of Peter and Bernadette Bonham of this address, Malibu.
Archer returned the magazines to the box and went back outside. He passed through a waist-high wooden gate and entered the backyard. It was flatter and larger than Lamb’s was, with a patch of lawn and perimeter flower and shrubbery beds that looked well tended and watered, though with the canyon walls, it probably got only limited sunlight. There was no pool, like Lamb had. But maybe the Bonhams weren’t that sort.
However, there was a span of lawn that was lumpy and uneven. Moles, thought Archer. They could do a number on the surface, all without seeing the light of day. Just like the bad guys.
He went to the back door and knocked. He decided against picking the lock. A garage was one thing, a home was something else. And if Oldham caught him, Archer could see a charge of breaking and entering in his future and maybe sticking.
Archer made an executive decision and moved on to something else that he hoped might hold promise but probably wouldn’t.
And such was the life of a pavement-pounding PI on a slow dance to maybe nowhere.
Chapter 15
He walked to the other house, which he now knew was Mrs. Danforth’s. It was smaller than the Bonhams’ but larger than Lamb’s, and older. There was a good-sized bay window to the left of the front door, which had a small Judas window set at eye level. He knocked, and a few moments later he saw a head appear in the glass. The door opened to the extent of the latched brass chain.
Two wide eyes peered anxiously through the gap. “Yes?”
“Name’s Archer.” He flashed his license and asked if he could come in.
“Is this about next door?” said the thin mouth below the pair of deep-set watery eyes.
“Yes it is. I’m working with the police.” Forgive me, Lord, for I have lied. “You’re Mrs. Danforth?”
“Yes, Sylvia Danforth.”
“I’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s all right.”
She undid the chain and revealed herself as small and shriveled with a silver curlicue wig, fake eyelashes, an easily discernible girdle to hold her figure the way it used to be, and enough makeup for pretty much any stage play. He thought she batted her eyes at him, but Archer couldn’t be sure; the light was tricky, and so might she be.
The woman led him into a small front room piled with two things: furniture and cats. He had no objection to the first, and none really to the second. Even when three of them wrapped themselves around his ankles and one plopped on his lap when he sat down. However, when a fifth musketeer climbed on his shoulders he did file an objection with the court and picked it off, placing it on a couch. Set across the breadth of the room on a variety of surfaces were pink seashells burned brittle by the sun, frilly hassocks, an abundance of pincushions, and framed photos with dainty, dust-catching doilies underneath. Against one wall was a prewar phonograph on a table with a stack of records beside it. A large cabinet TV was next to it.
She sat across from him, her features somber. Her thin, fragile lips trembled. “A policeman came by to ask questions. He said a man had been found dead. In dear Ellie Lamb’s home. I can’t believe it. Is she all right? He didn’t say.”
“We don’t know. We can’t find her. When’s the last time you saw her?”
“Yesterday.”
“You remember the time?” Archer asked as he plucked the lap cat off because it was starting to claw his crotch.
She tapped her thumb against her mouth. “Time, time... it’s so difficult, you know.”
Archer took out his notebook and pencil and chewed on the eraser end. “Well, let me help you out. Was it daytime or nighttime? Let’s start with that and work our way along.”
“Oh, the daytime, certainly the sun was still up.”
“How long does the sun stay up in the canyon this time of year?”
“Oh, not that long. Three or four p.m. at the most.”
“Okay, was the sun starting to go down when you saw her?”
“Oh, I see what you’re doing. How clever.”
“Yes, ma’am, I certainly try.”
“I think the sun was going down. Yes, it was definitely growing dark.”
“Was she walking? Driving? Did she come by to see you?”
“She drove by in her car, that little silver one.”
“You didn’t see her after that?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone else around yesterday?”
“No, the Bonhams are in France. I told the nice policeman that, too.”
“But other people live on this road.”
“Yes, but these three are the only houses around here. The others are farther down, or farther up, and they’re around long bends.”
“Okay, you ever see a dark blue four-door Ford parked across the street from Lamb’s house?”
She looked uncertain. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“Do the Bonhams have a car?”
“They do, but they drove it to the airport before they flew to France.”
“When was that?”
“They left about a month ago. They like to spend time there. She’s French.”
“They fly out of LA International?”
“That’s right.” Her expression grew animated. “I went to Europe back in 1921. My husband, Oliver, and I went by ocean liner. We sailed out of New York and over to Southampton. We got dressed up and danced every night. It was very romantic.”
“I’m sure.”
“Oh, where are my manners? Would you like something to drink? I have coffee, orange juice, or scotch.”
Archer was a bit taken aback by this wide selection. “Um, I don’t know. What do you usually have?”
“Don’t let me influence you, young man. But I don’t like coffee or orange juice. On the other hand, I am partial to scotch.”
Archer glanced at a grandfather clock in the corner to check the time. “I guess a finger of scotch would be fine.”