After she left the studio apartment of the tall young uniformed policeman who had directed traffic out on Noble’s Trace where Ivy Settles and the woman photographer had been shot to death, Dixie Mansur drove home to Santa Barbara and its Montecito enclave. It was there that she and Parvis Mansur lived in the sprawling fieldstone house with the blue tile roof on an acre of ground that was surrounded by a twelve-foot-high chain-link fence.
As she slipped the coded plastic card into the slot that opened the sliding steel gate, she tried to remember the young policeman’s name. It was either Sean or Michael, she thought, deciding he was just about young enough to have been born at a time when most male babies seemed to be named either Sean or Michael. But what she remembered best about him was the mess his apartment had been.
She drove the Aston Martin through the gate and on up the concrete drive to the four-door garage. She pressed the switch beneath the dashboard that signaled her garage door to rise. Once it had risen, she drove in and parked next to Parvis Mansur’s white Rolls-Royce.
As she entered the library, Mansur looked up from his book, down at his watch, and up again. “You might’ve called,” he said.
Dixie went over to the bar and poured herself a glass of sherry. “I started to,” she said, taking a sip, “but after I talked to Vines and told him what you told me to tell him, I went over to B. D.’s and after that things got a little hectic.”
“In what respect?”
“Remember that photographer-the one who wanted to do a freelance feature on the house for some grubby monthly?”
“I remember that you talked to her and turned her down. A Miss Hornette, wasn’t it?”
“Hazel Hornette-although she liked to be called Hazy. Anyway, she’s dead.”
“An accident?”
“She was shot dead out on the Trace about two blocks east of the city limits. A Durango cop was also killed. One of the out-of-town ones that Sid hired. Ivy something.”
“Ivy Settles,” said Mansur, who had made it a point to learn the names of all four detectives Sid Fork had hired for what Mansur thought of as the chief’s personal Savak.
He put down his book, Palmer and Colton’s A History of the Modern World, the fifth edition, rose and walked over to the bar, where he mixed himself a weak Scotch and water. After a swallow, he turned to Dixie and asked, “You saw them then-the remains?”
“I was with B. D. when the sheriff called and told her about it. She was in a hurry to get there so we went in my car. They hadn’t been moved so, yes, I saw the bodies.”
“I’d like you to tell me the rest of it, Dixie, and do take your time. You might start from when you first saw Kelly Vines.”
She gave him a concise and reasonably factual account of how she had spent the afternoon, evening, night and morning hours, and also of what she had seen and heard and done, leaving out the sex she had enjoyed with Vines and the sex she had experienced, if not enjoyed, with the tall young uniformed policeman whose name, she now remembered, was Sean and not Michael.
After she had finished, and after Mansur had asked all the questions he thought he needed to ask, she said, “This is tied in somehow with that deal you’ve arranged for the fourth, isn’t it?”
Mansur thought about it, nodded and said, “It would appear to be.”
“Then on the fourth I’m going to be out of town.”
“Why?”
“Because if anything goes wrong, or if anything happens to you or Sid, I want to be with somebody someplace else.”
Mansur smiled approvingly. “You want an alibi.”
“You could call it that.”
“I really can’t blame you. Whom d’you have in mind?”
“I thought I’d drive down to San Diego Saturday, stay with the Moussavvises and come back late Monday when it’s all over.”
“They’ll be glad to see you, especially Reva, but the traffic’s going to be bloody awful.”
“That’s why I thought I might take the Rolls-unless you plan to do your go-betweening in it.”
Mansur chuckled. “I can think of nothing more inappropriate.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Take it, of course,” he said and looked at his watch. “We’d best get to bed, hadn’t we?” He paused to smile at her-a smile full of hope. “Would you like to sleep in my room tonight, or are you too tired?”
“I’m not tired at all,” Dixie Mansur said.
Chapter 37
From the June 28, 29, 30 and July 2 editions of the Durango Times:
Services for Norman Trice, 46, owner of the landmark Blue Eagle Bar, were held Monday at Bruner Brothers Mortuary.
Twenty-three out-of-town media representatives and approximately 200 mourners heard Mayor B. D. Huckins deliver a brief but moving eulogy. Mr. Trice, a native of Durango, is survived by his wife, Virginia, (Cont. on Page 3)
A memorial service was held Tuesday at the First Methodist Church for Detective Ivy Settles, 51, of the Durango Police Department. A brief but moving eulogy was delivered by Chief of Police Sid Fork.
Among the more than 100 persons attending the services were Mayor B. D. Huckins, Sheriff Charles J. Coates and representatives from 17 California police departments. Five out-of-town reporters were also present.
Settles is survived by his wife, Carlotta, (Cont. on Page 5)
The body of Hazel Hornette, 28, a Santa Barbara freelance photographer, was identified here Wednesday by her aunt, Marlene Hornette, 52, also of Santa Barbara.
Following cremation, private services will be held at sea by the Santa Barbara Neptune Society.
Graveside services for Brig. Gen. Soldier P. Sloan (RCAFRet.), 71, were held Friday at the Evergreen Cemetery with prayers offered by Fr. Francis Riggins of Santa Margarita Catholic Church. A brief but moving eulogy was spoken by Jack Adair, formerly of Lompoc.
In attendance were Mayor B. D. Huckins, Chief of Police Sid Fork, Kelly Vines, formerly of La Jolla, and Mrs. Parvis Mansur of Santa Barbara.
General Sloan left no survivors.
Adair and Vines walked away from Soldier Sloan’s grave on Thursday morning after the final prayer and headed for the blue Mercedes. A man, dressed in a tan poplin suit, got out of a black Mercury sedan parked near the Mercedes and walked toward them.
The man’s right hand was reaching for something in either his shirt pocket or the breast pocket inside his coat when Sid Fork materialized in front of Vines and Adair, blocking the man’s approach.
Fork had dressed for the graveside services in his old tweed jacket, ironed jeans, white shirt and black knit tie. His right hand was jammed down into the jacket’s right pocket.
Staring at the man in the tan suit, Fork said, “Sure hope that’s either a cigarette or some ID you’re reaching for, friend.”
The man in the tan suit nodded. “After I bring it out ever so slowly, it’ll say I’m with the Department of Justice.”
“Nice and slow then.”
The man produced a folding ID case and handed it to Fork, who studied it, looked up and said, “Claims you’re Leonard Deep and that you’re an assistant deputy U.S. attorney out of Washington. What it doesn’t say is if you’re here on official business.”
“Personal,” Deep said. “With Mr. Adair and Mr. Vines.”
Fork turned to them and said, “You want to talk to the Justice Department about something personal?”
“I think so,” Adair said, looking at Vines. “Kelly?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Then B. D. and I’ll see you out at Cousin Mary’s for lunch,” Fork said, handed the ID back to Deep, turned and walked toward the mayor, who was standing beside her Volvo, listening to Father Riggins.