"He's looking at me right now," I answered. Dimly I could see him through a doorway behind her, in a poorly lit inner room. My eyes hadn't adjusted from the late sunlight outdoors, and he looked vaguely like an ape on all fours. "If Mrs. Ashley isn't in, I'll speak with Mr. Ashley."
I sort of pushed past her, she giving way to one side, and I walked through the vestibule into a comfortable living room. Sky light came through a tall south window, thinned by trees and drapes. It jarred me to see Eldon Ashley, and to realize he was Aldon's twin. Both legs had been amputated, leaving stubs maybe eight inches long. And instead of prosthetics, he moved on his knuckles. No, on thick blunt fingers! His torso was small, but below the sleeves of a body shirt, his arms were corded with muscle. His eyes were wary, and did not seem unintelligent. Brain-damaged he might be, but he looked aware and alert.
"Mr. Ashley," I said, "my name is Martti Seppanen." I didn't offer my hand; he was standing on his. I'm one of the stronger people I know, but I doubt I could hold my own in a grip-down with Eldon Ashley. "I'm an investigator for the police," I went on. "I'm here because your brother Aldon was shot in his bed, night before last."
"Night . . . before . . . last?"
Not "Shot?"; just, "Night before last?" As if the time meant something to him.
"I've been assigned to investigate," I went on, then paused, trying to read his eyes. In that light they could have been marbles. "Do you have any idea who'd do such a thing?"
There was a long response lag, which in his case could have been physiological instead of psychological. There was no sign of grief, but his face seemed to have shrunk. When he answered, it was quietly. "No."
"Have you talked with your brother lately?"
He stared blankly, saying nothing. The nurse came into the room then. She showed no sign of hostility, only concern, presumably for Eldon. "I've called Mrs. Ashley," she said. "She'll be here in a few minutes."
"Right. Did you know that Mr. Ashley's twin brother was shot, night before last?"
Instead of looking shocked, she looked puzzled.
"Didn't you know he had a brother?"
"No sir, I didn't."
"How long have you worked here?"
"Five years last May."
"Do you live on the premises?"
"I have a room upstairs."
"Um. His brother's name was Arthur Ashkenazi, but it had been Aldon Ashley." I was addressing myself to the nurse, but my eyes were on Eldon. I had no idea why I was saying these things. "He changed his name after a big row with their father," I went on. "After Veronica, Mrs. Ashley, had told their father that Aldon had said terrible things to Eldon. She said Aldon was to blame for Eldon's auto wreck, the wreck that left him—" I groped. "Without his legs."
Eldon's eyes had opened wide. His mouth opened too, not to speak, but in shock. He never knew! I thought. Eldon Ashley never knew! Then a terrible thought hit me. Maybe it hadn't happened that way. I'd had the story from Ashkenazi's old college buddy, who'd had it from Ashkenazi, but how accurate was it? If it wasn't true, I'd done a very bad thing to Eldon, and to his wife.
The nurse brought me out of it. "Uh, sir, can I bring you some tea?"
I told her yes, and when she left, I asked Eldon if I could sit down. It took him a few seconds to answer, but he said yes, so I sat. Then, using his stubs as the third point of a mobile tripod, he went to another chair and got into it with a remarkable movement, a one-armed vault, torso twisting, free hand grasping the far arm of the sturdy overstuffed chair. And this man was 61 years old! I curbed my gawking and made a little small talk, an awkward, one-sided monolog.
The nurse came in with a tray, holding a teapot, two cups and saucers, a cream pitcher, and a sugar bowl with tongs. And oatmeal cookies. There was a little side table by each large chair; she served and left. I sipped, and tried to think of something to say that wouldn't sound inane. "Are you and Aldon identical twins?" I asked, then realized the question was insensitive on two counts. But after the typical long pause, he answered.
"Yes. Identical. But . . . we . . . were . . . always . . . different."
He may be brain-damaged, I told myself, but he's not stupid. Not across-the-board stupid. I found myself saying, "Different but close, I suppose."
"Yes," Eldon said. "Close. Stood . . . up . . . for . . . each . . . other. Always."
It hurt to hear it. But he seemed okay now. Not cheerful, but resigned. Accepting.
Then I heard the front door open, and got to my feet. A minute later Veronica Ashley strode into the room. Her eyes moved to me like a laser. She was not pleased. "I'm Veronica Ashley," she said. Making it a challenge. "Mr. Ashley's wife."
She wasn't a tall woman, but she had presence. Her build was sturdy. I got the impression of someone who worked out, probably at the faculty women's health club. But the strongest impression was of will, perhaps mixed with unforgivingness. Maybe she could have climbed the encina with a gun and shot Ashkenazi.
"You're also Arthur Ashkenazi's sister-in-law," I said. "My name is Martti Seppanen. I presume you've heard about his death."
"I was informed by his attorney."
"He was shot in the head," I added. "Once, right through the brain, with a 9mm pistol."
She was definitely startled by that. "He didn't tell me that," she said. "I'd assumed—assumed he'd died of natural causes."
Something felt wrong here, but I had no notion what. "I'm investigating the death on a contract with the Santa Barbara County Sheriff's Department. Do you have any idea why someone would shoot your brother-in-law?"
"None at all." Veronica Ashley was fully in control of herself now.
"Have you had any contact with him recently?"
"We haven't seen Aldon since their mother's funeral, ten years ago. And barely then."
"Not even in connection with the trust fund he set up for you? To help take care of Eldon?"
She grimaced, her face darkening with blood. "No. His attorney handled it."
I glanced at Eldon. He was watching intently, his mouth slightly open. His eyes were unreadable, but it seemed to me he was comprehending it all. And that it was new to him.
"You're the payee of the fund. What do you suppose your brother-in-law was worth?"
Her answer was stiff. "I have no idea."
"I don't either, Mrs. Ashley, but apparently quite a few million." I changed direction on her then. "Perhaps you have some idea who might have killed him. Think back. These things can grow out of old grudges."
Her lips had compressed. Now they opened. "Am I a suspect, Mr.—?"
"Seppanen. Detective Seppanen. Family is often suspect in these matters, Mrs. Ashley. That's a general rule."
"Well I'm afraid I can't help you. And you can believe this or not, but I hope you catch the gunman. If for no other reason than to remove any suspicion from me."
The way she said it, it felt like the truth.
13
I drove home trying to make sense of it, and getting nowhere. Back in my apartment, I phoned Tuuli. It was late to ask for a date that evening, so knowing her taste for space opera, I suggested the Star Wars festival showing at the New Hollywood Palladium. The first three movies in one marathon night! In honor of the ninetieth anniversary of George Mather, who'd produced the special effects for the first one.
When I finished my pitch, she answered me in Finnish. "Martti," she said, "that was nice of you. But what you're really looking for is distraction from whatever is on your mind. And I don't feel like being a distraction tonight." She may have picked up that I felt abused by her answer, because after a moment she added: "But I'd enjoy visiting on the phone awhile. Tell me about your day."