I turned right on Acacia, found the street I was looking for and slowed when I came to the address for Leda DeMont Rose and her father, Horace-a corner lot. I got lucky with parking and found a space not far away, then walked back to the corner.
It was a large house, though not among the very newest on the street. Judging by its design, I thought it probably had been built in the 1970s. I studied the addresses and realized that Robert’s home was on the same side of the street, at the beginning of the next block, on the opposite corner of the intersection. His was a single-story crackerbox that was probably built in the 1940s. My guess was that a similar house had originally occupied Leda’s lot.
While Leda’s property was neatly kept, her brother’s was a little less so. Robert’s place could have used a coat of paint, and looking at the brown, patchy grass in his yard, I saw that no one could accuse him of wasting water on a lawn. The place wasn’t so far gone that you’d call it an eyesore, but it didn’t look like the owner had a lot of domestic enthusiasm.
I stood debating which household I should upset first, and decided that even in my current condition, I could take on a guy who was almost a hundred and live to fight another day. I wasn’t sure how old Robert was, but Gerald’s story about Robert’s arrest was enough to make me decide to save Robert for round two.
There was a low wooden fence around the front yard of Leda De-Mont’s home; I lifted the latch on the gate and made my way along a set of long, flat platforms set at right angles to one another. The platforms served as steps. On either side of each platform were carefully pruned bushes and shrubs that added privacy as well as greenery. The platforms ended at a deck that was concealed from the street by more plant life. At one end of the deck was a small rock grotto with a stream of water flowing through it. The water pooled at its base; the flow produced a soft gurgling, a not-quite-babbling brook effect.
Tall, ornate double doors stood across from the grotto. Looking at those doors, I made a set of predictions: cathedral ceilings, Italian marble entry, a huge stone fireplace, a loft, white walls and white carpet, and-not really going out on a limb here-lots of tinted windows on the ocean side, which was also the side that faced Robert’s place. I rang Leda’s doorbell.
I was so surprised when a young woman answered the door, I nearly forgot to congratulate myself on knowing what to expect inside. She looked to be about sixteen or seventeen. She was a pretty girl, with big brown eyes and light-brown hair, which she wore in a long braid. She had on jeans and a red tank top. She was about five-six or so, and slender.
“Hello,” I said. “Is Leda DeMont in? No, I’m sorry-is Leda Rose in?”
She pulled her gaze away from my bruised cheek and forehead, smiled and said, “Sure, just a minute.” She turned toward a hallway and shouted, “Grandma! It’s for you!”
“Who is it?” a voice called back.
“Irene Kelly,” I said, knowing the name probably wouldn’t mean anything to her.
I heard my name shouted back and forth a couple of times, then the voice in the background said, “I’ll be right there.”
Taking this for permission to let me enter, the young woman guided me to a seat on a white leather sofa.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked.
“No, thanks. Do you live here with your grandmother?”
“No, I just come by on the weekends. I help her take care of my greatgrandfather.”
At this moment, Leda came out of the hallway. “Laurie?” she called.
“Over here, Grandma,” she answered.
Leda DeMont Rose was an older and slightly heavier version of her granddaughter. Her hair was cut short and the brown was a little less natural in shade, but their features were very similar.
She smiled at me and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t seem to remember where we’ve met.”
“We haven’t met,” I said, standing and extending a hand. “I’m Irene Kelly.” I took a breath and then launched into the story I had decided to use. “I was hoping to speak to you privately about a rather personal family matter.”
She raised a brow, then turned to her granddaughter and said, “Laurie, why don’t you keep an eye on old Grumpypuss?”
Reluctantly, and as slowly as possible, Laurie left us.
“Now,” Leda said. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, this is rather embarrassing, and I hope it won’t be too upsetting to you, but I need to talk to someone who might be able to give me some advice. I’ve been approached by a private investigator, a Mr. Richmond?”
She sat up a little straighter, but said nothing.
“Mr. Richmond claims to have some information of interest to a cousin of mine, Travis Maguire. You may think of him as Travis Spanning.”
Her lips flattened, but she didn’t say anything.
“The problem is that my own family has had very little to do with Travis. Even though his mother is my mother’s sister, we haven’t had much to do with her since the death of your own cousin, Gwendolyn.”
“The murder of my cousin,” she corrected.
“Yes. I’m sorry. But you see, my mother died not long after Travis was born, and my father didn’t like Arthur Spanning, so we never had much to do with him. My parents are no longer living, and I never heard the full story, so this isn’t a personal grudge of my own. My problem is, I suppose I could locate Travis, but before I do, I’d like to be a little more sure of Mr. Richmond. He said he worked for you.”
At that her mouth fell open in what was clearly unfeigned amazement. “He did? Why that lying scoundrel! I-I can’t believe it! Of all the unmitigated gall!”
“Excuse me?”
That man-that man is the last person I would ever hire to do any detective work for me, I can assure you! Don’t do a thing to help him! Oh! I blame him for-oh, for so much!“ she finished bitterly.
I waited.
“Mr. Richmond’s incompetence has been the cause of a great many ills, not the least of which is that my aunt’s murderer remains at large.”
“You’re speaking of Arthur Spanning?”
“No, of course not!” she said.
I was stunned. This was the last response I had expected.
“I don’t know what problem your father had with Arthur, but I can tell you that he never would have harmed Gwen.”
“Never harmed her? But he was a bigamist-”
“Yes. Yes, he was. And that was very wrong. Not that I don’t understand what led to that, but it was wrong. And that poor little boy-”
She stood up and paced, wringing her hands. “Do you think there is any chance you will find your cousin?”
“A very good chance,” I said.
She began pacing again. I decided to stay silent; she was apparently debating something with herself and I was too unsure of the territory to push her into answering questions.
“You’ve misjudged him, you know,” she said at last.
“My cousin?”
“No, Arthur. You’ve believed Richmond’s story, haven’t you?”
“Well, until I got here, I suppose I did,” I lied. “But I did think there was something about Mr. Richmond that seemed a little strange.”
“Forget Mr. Richmond. Perhaps,” she said, sitting down again, “I can do a little something to right an old wrong. Are you willing to keep an open mind, Ms. Kelly?”
“Yes, of course. And call me Irene, please.”
“All right, Irene.” Several moments passed before she spoke again. “First of all, let me tell you that your uncle Arthur never killed Gwen. If Arthur had wanted to end his marriage to Gwen, he would have divorced her. I haven’t seen him in years, but I knew Arthur then, my dear, and believe me, he would have never chosen murder over divorce. There was no reason for him to do so.”
“Her fortune-”
“Hah!”
“Pardon?”
“I said, ”Hah!“ Tell me, Irene, did you see the house across the street on your way in?” Yes.
“That’s my brother’s place. Robert DeMont. Do you know why this house looks better than that one?”