"Why? Did you shoot him?"
"Don't be crazy."
"I'm not. Everybody else seems to be. But I'm not."
"It just wouldn't look right," she said. "It might make them suspicious. Ostervelt has a down on me, anyway. He was married to the old man's sister, and he always thought he should have a piece of the property. We did enough for him already, canceling his debts."
"You canceled his debts?"
"Jerry did, after the old man died."
"Why would Jerry do that?"
"He did it out of pure generosity, not that it's any of your business. You make me sick with your suspicions. You're suspicious of everybody."
"Including you," I said.
"You are crazy. And I was a fool to try and talk to you."
"Talk some more. How did this happen?"
"I wasn't present, is that clear? I didn't even hear the shot."
"Where were you?"
"Taking a shower, if you want to know."
"Can you prove it?"
"Examine me. I'm clean." Her green eyes flashed with never-say-die eroticism.
I backed away. "Where was the sheriff?"
"Searching the stables. He thought maybe Carl was there. Carl used to spend a lot of time in the stables."
"Has he been seen at all?"
"Not to my knowledge. If I do see him, you'll know it. So will he." She patted the target-pistol stuck in her waistband.
Returning footsteps crackled in the gravel. She smoothed her face and tried to look like a widow. She went on looking like exactly what she was: a hard blonde beauty in her fading thirties, fighting the world with two weapons, sex and money. Both of her weapons had turned in her hands and scarred her.
The sheriff entered the greenish gloom, with Mildred trailing reluctantly at his heels. She was pale and anxious-eyed. When I approached her, she looked down at the packed earth floor of the greenhouse. Her mouth trembled into speech:
"It wasn't any use after all. Why did you go away?"
"I was forced to. Your brother-in-law ordered me off the ranch. He must have been shot within a few minutes after that."
"Did Carl really do it, do you think?"
"That's the idea the sheriff is trying to sell. I haven't taken an option on it yet."
She raised her eyes from the brown earth, and managed a small grateful smile. Sheriff Ostervelt tapped my shoulder. "Here. I want to show you."
He had a black enameled evidence case in his hands. He carried it as if it was full of jewels. Setting it down on a bench, he unlocked it and opened it, with the air of a magician. It contained a .32-caliber Smith and Wesson nickel-plated revolver — the gun that Carl had flourished in my office.
"Don't touch it," Ostervelt said. "I can't see any prints with the naked eye, but I'm going to have it tested for latent ones. Is this the gun that Heller pulled on you?"
"That one or its twin."
"You're sure about that? You know guns?"
"Yes. But you still haven't proved it fired the shot that killed Jerry Heller. Where's the slug?"
"Still in his head. Don't worry, I intend to run ballistics tests. Not that it ain't wrapped up already. This revolver was left at the scene of the crime with one shell empty that had just been fired."
"How do you know it had just been fired?"
"I smelled it. Smell it yourself."
I leaned down and caught the acrid odor of recently expended smokeless powder. Mildred, who had been standing in the background with Zinnia, moved up behind me. Looking down into the black metal box, she let out an exclamation of surprise and dismay.
"What's the trouble, Milly?" Ostervelt said.
She didn't answer for what seemed a long time. She looked at him and then at me, her mouth drooping dismally.
"What is it?" he repeated. "If you know something, speak up."
"I've seen that gun before. I think I have, anyway."
"Does it belong to Carl?"
"No. It's Dr. Grantland's. My employer in Beverly Hills. It looks exactly the same as the one in his desk."
"How did it get here, then?"
"I haven't any idea," she answered faintly.
"Wait a minute," I said. "You told me Carl rifled his cash drawer this morning. Did the doctor keep his revolver in the same drawer?"
"I think he did. I've seen it there. I couldn't swear that it's the same revolver."
Zinnia pushed forward between us, her sharp elbow jabbing my side. "Maybe you better talk to Bobby Grantland."
"Do you know him?"
"I ought to. He's spent enough weekends here. He and Jerry went to school together."
I turned to Mildred. "Didn't you say Grantland was Carl's psychiatrist?"
"He was for a while after the war. That's why he gave me a job, I guess."
Zinnia snorted. "Like hell it is. Jerry got you that job with Bobby Grantland. Now that Jerry's dead, it's time you showed a little gratitude for all he's done for you."
"Gratitude for what?" Mildred turned on her in a thin white fury. "For giving me a chance to go to work for fifty dollars a week?"
"He sent you money as long as you needed it, didn't he?"
"He sent me a little money, for a while. You put a stop to that."
"You're right. I did. There's no reason why he had to support every female bum that married into the family."
"He supported you," Mildred said. "Speaking of female bums. You've got it all to yourself now. Aren't you satisfied?"
They were on the verge of hair-pulling. Zinnia reached for her. I put a hand on her arm, and she drew back. The sheriffs little eyes squinted stupidly at us, as if the quick turn of events had befuddled his brain. Mildred backed away and stood against a raised planter, plucking idly at the tiny shell-like blossoms on a young cymbidium spray.
"Let me get this straight," Ostervelt said. "You said something just now, Zinnia, that Jerry made the doc give Milly a job. How could Jerry do that?"
"Bobby Grantland owed him money, that's how. Jerry lent him the capital to set up in practice after the war."
"Does he still owe him the money?"
"I guess so, most of it. I think he's been paying it back a little at a time."
"Was Jerry pressing him for it?"
"I wouldn't know. Ask him."
I said: "Was Grantland here five years ago? The day that old Mr. Heller was strangled?"
Mildred answered: "Yes, he was. He came up to observe Carl. But this is ridiculous. He couldn't have had anything to do with any of this."
"Did he testify at Carl's sanity hearing?"
"Of course he did."
"What did he say about Carl?"
"I don't know. I wasn't there. I couldn't face it."
"I was," Zinnia said. "I don't remember the two-dollar words, but they added up to the fact that my esteemed brother-in-law was as nutty as a fruitcake. Was and is."
"Maybe. I'd like to talk to the good doctor, about that and other things."
"Me, too." Sheriff Ostervelt snapped his black case shut and tucked it under his hamlike arm. He went to Mildred, walking like a bear on its hind legs, and laid a large red paw on her shoulder. "Coming along with me, little girl?"
She shrank at his touch. "I'll ride with Mr. Archer. He brought me here."
"Now don't be like that." His hand slid round her shoulders in a gesture that was more than paternal. "I'd enjoy your company, Mildred. Besides, I need you to show me the way. I'm just an old hick from the sticks. I don't know those Los Angeles streets the way he does. Of course I got to admit I'm not as young and pretty as he is."
His belly nudged her. She leaned away from him against the plants. "I'll go with you if you don't touch me," she said in a tiny voice. "Promise that you won't touch me."
"Sure. Of course." He took a backward step and said with jovial lechery: "You got me wrong, Mildred. You never understood me. I wouldn't hurt a hair on your little head. And nobody else is going to, either, not while you got old Ostie to protect you."