Rode Hard, Put Away Dead Page 10

  “So you went over there.”

  “Uh huh. When Jodie answered the door, she was buttoning up her blouse.”

  “Did you tell Abby that?”

  “I didn't have to. She was still peeking out the blind. She and J.B. got into a major fight later, I heard.”

  “Someone told you about it?”

  “Ramona, the maid. She's not all there, but she said they went round and round over Jodie Austin.”

  “So do you think something was going on between the two of them?”

  Rabbit shrugged.

  “Did he ever hit on you?”

  “No.” She laughed and flexed her biceps. “I think I was too much for that little squirt.”

  The young man who had done the swan dive walked in the pool house and approached our table.

  “Rabbit, you think you could help me with my bench presses later?”

  He was standing next to us and since we were seated, that put the things I was not supposed to be looking at right in my face. This was just too tempting, and I found myself cheating and looking whenever I thought I could get away with it.

  “Sure, Reuben, how about four?”

  “Great, thanks.”

  And with that the plump diver was off.

  My sneak peeks had not gone unnoticed by Rabbit.

  “Do you know who the most popular guy at a nudist colony is?”

  I shook my head.

  “The one who can carry a dozen donuts with no hands.”

  Reuben, as near as I could tell, was not going to be breaking donut records any time soon.

  When I finished my interview with Rabbit Carter she had shed no new light on my investigation. What had made the drive across town worthwhile was the information she had given me about a possible tryst between J.B. Calendar and the New York model, Jodie Austin.

  While jealousy could be a powerful motive, it could also induce people to take action. Could Abby have been thinking about divorcing J.B.? And just because her young husband cheated on her, did that make him a murderer?

  As I drove out the thought occurred to me that I had forgotten to ask Rabbit about her name.

  Then again, maybe some stones were better left un-turned.

  18

  I HAD A THREE O'CLOCK APPOINTMENT WITH CLARICE Martínez and found her in the patio aviary of her spacious Catalina Foothills home, spraying her birds with water. She was a tiny little thing with dyed red hair cut pixie style and a gap between her oversized front teeth. Her khaki shorts and Nature Conservancy T-shirt were good camouflage for the fortune behind them.

  I'd done some homework on her and knew that she had been born a Mellon, married a Vanderbilt and had ended up with Pepe Martínez, a local rags-to-riches story who had founded Pepe's Auto Parts, a chain of seventeen stores spread around the state.

  “Mommy's birdies are hot. Sweet little chirpies,” she cooed and made kissing noises to what looked like a flock of nervous finches. From their flight patterns, I suspected that they really were not enjoying their afternoon shower all that much.

  “Mrs. Martínez?” I peered through the wire of the cage. Clarice Martínez looked pretty well preserved, and I suspected, like Abby, she'd had quite a bit of surgery done.

  “Oh, you must be the detective. How exciting!” She coiled the hose, exited the coop and extended a wet freckled hand. “Clarice, call me Clarice, honey, everyone does.”

  “Okay, Clarice.”

  “Now I know you want to know all about Abby, so let's go inside. Goodbye my lovelies.” She threw a kiss to her birds as I followed her into the house.

  Without asking, she poured two tumblersfull of iced tea, handed me one and motioned to the glass top table in her breakfast nook, which overlooked the swimming pool and the birdcage.

  “Just love those birds, love 'em.” Her eyes were that clear, sparkly blue that give some people a mystical look. Suddenly she jumped back up, disappeared around the corner and returned a minute later and handed me a photograph. It was of her and Abby. Both of them were wearing biker's black leather jackets and straddling a Harley. Clarice, the smaller of the two small women, was in the driver's seat, Abby behind. Both women wore black pants and high heels.

  “She was my best friend.”

  She was on J.B.'s list of Abby's closest friends.

  “I knew her forever. Our nannies were friends and they used to push us in our strollers together in Central Park when we were babies. It was always just the two of us, at least until Peter came along.”

  “Peter's younger then.”

  “By three years. He's actually her half brother. Her mother remarried when Abby was five.”

  “And she took the Van Thiessen name?”

  Clarice nodded. “Her own father had died in a boating accident, so it wasn't a problem.”

  “Were there other sisters or brothers?”

  “Nope. Just the two of them. They were tighter than ticks though, because of that mother they had. Madeleine.” Clarice let wind whistle through the gap in her front teeth. “She was a real basket case and made dysfunctional look normal.”

  “In what way?”

  “Oh the usual Oprah stuff. Abused them. Beat them. Tied them up. She had a special closet she'd throw them in when she really wanted to punish them. She called it the Cave and did that pretty regularly. For rich kids, they had it pretty rough.”

  Jesus. She had all that money. Couldn't she have just sent them to the zoo with a nanny? I remembered Uncle C's talking about the bruises on Abby's body, suggesting they might have been from spousal abuse. If she'd been abused as a child, would that have made it more likely that she would have hooked up with a man that would mistreat her? I had no idea.

  “So, where was Peter's father when all of this was happening?”

  “When he wasn't at the candy factory, which was most of the time, he was too drunk to much care about how Madeleine was spending her days. He'd come home, drink his fill and pass out, ignoring his wife. In fact I used to think that was the reason Madeleine was so mean to Peter and Abby. I thought she was taking her anger toward him out on them, but then I figured out she was just naturally wicked. Some people are, you know.”

  I nodded, for I'd seen my share of wicked.

  “Peter's father died of cirrhosis when we were all in college.”

  Clarice stared out the window. I suspected she was admiring her birds. And then she continued my Van Thiessen history lesson.

  “And she was crazy. One year Abby said she wanted to marry Peter. That's what she wanted for her birthday. Do you believe it?”

  “Peter, her brother?”

  “The same. You have to remember we were really into playing house back then. Anyway Mad Madeleine sent out invitations, had her dressmaker make the bridesmaids' dresses, and even ordered a wedding cake.”

  I rolled my eyes. “They didn't really have a wedding?”

  “The whole nine yards.”

  I wondered how many years of therapy it would take to work through that one. If ever.

  “And then the following week there was a very quiet divorce. There was no Cave that time. She locked them in separate closets for five days.”

  “Pretty sick. So what's the story on Peter? Does he have a family?”

  “Oh, he's a confirmed bachelor. Never married. Honey, it's been so long now he doesn't even appear on those most eligible lists anymore. Everyone's given up on him.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh no.” She laughed. “He's always had lots of girlfriends.”

  “I didn't mean …” But of course I did.

  “While I understand why they were so close, fact is I was always a little jealous of Peter. I'd had Abby to myself until he came along. But then we went to a girl's boarding school and then on to Vassar, which was all girls back in those days. We were there until I dropped out to find myself. And we've gone through seven husbands together.”

  “Seven?”

  “Well, five of them were mine,” she said with a
wistful smile. “Pepe's my husband du jour.”

  I laughed at what I hoped was a joke.

  “God, I can't believe she's gone. And to drown? She was a great swimmer, just great. We used to go to the Caymans skin diving all the time.”

  “Well, the police are looking into that.”

  She didn't look surprised. “I imagine they are. How deep was that pond anyway?”

  “I don't know.” It had been one of the questions I'd intended on asking Uncle C, but I was waiting for Emily Rose's call on the toxicology reports, figuring I might as well lump together all my questions for him.

  “How's J.B. doing?”

  “He'll be all right,” I said.

  “For the record, honey, I do believe that boy loved her.”

  Interesting choice of words. Boy.

  “And she was nutso about him. Old John Wilson hadn't been planted three months and she fell head over heels with that cute little cowboy.”

  “Who was John Wilson?” I asked, suddenly realizing I knew very little about Abigail Van Thiessen.

  “Her husband. Wilson Made Fabrics.”

  “The textile company?”

  She nodded. “She met him when she was in New York working for Choco-Willie Candy, her stepfather's company. He was quite a bit older than she was. She was twenty-three. I was her maid of honor.”

  I did some quick math. “They must have been married about forty-five years.”

  “Just short of. He was in Costa Rica skin diving with some friends and had a massive heart attack. Never made it out of the water alive. She was devastated.”

  “But then J.B. came along,” I said, prompting her.

  “Poor Abby, that was one thing about her, she always had to have a man around.”

  It seemed to me that anyone who'd had five husbands might also fit into that category.

  “And the sex!” Clarice fanned herself with a newspaper. “I guess the cowboy was really something in that department. Jeepers, Abby used to say he was so good, she wanted to share him with her friends. Not that she ever did, of course.”

  “Then she wasn't jealous about J.B., I mean, what with the age difference and all.”

  “Jealous? Hell, yes, she was jealous. I was very careful when I was around the two of them. She had a green streak a mile wide.”

  “Did she ever say anything about other women?”

  “Sure. She thought he was having an affair with someone.”

  “Did she say who it was?”

  “Which time?”

  “My God, they'd only been married six months. How much screwing around was he doing?”

  “In reality or in her mind? Realistically, maybe not at all. In Abby's mind, he couldn't be trusted in that department and she didn't like that, didn't like it at all. She was a Scorpio, did you know that?”

  I shook my head.

  “Jealous as hell, all of them. They'll pull out that stinger and zap!” Her fingernail dug into my arm, startling me. “You're gone.”

  “Are you saying that you think she was getting ready to dump J.B.?”

  She sipped her tea and thought about my question. “Now I can't really say that for sure, but she was sure trying to slow him down. Right before that trip she called me, furious since she'd just found out that bull-riding woman was coming back.”

  “She thought there was something going on?”

  “She didn't like her hanging around. She was a model, you know, and everything on her looked real.”

  “What's that mean?”

  “Honey, Abby worshipped at the altar of the plastic surgeon.” She brushed back her hair and I could see a faint line. “Hell, we've used some of the same artistes, but with her it was an obsession. Eyelids, lips, boobies, nose, she'd had them all rearranged. She thought liposuction was like having her hair done.”

  “She did look good.”

  “Still mutton dressed as lamb. It was deeper than that, though.” Clarice looked beyond me to the finches, a faraway look in her eyes. “She was truly terrified of growing old, of being incapacitated in any way and getting ugly. I guess she doesn't have to worry about that now.”

  “No.”

  “We were thirteen when Abby's mother died. She had cancer in her jaw. It was terrible. Madeleine had been a beautiful woman, but they just kept cutting up her face. Of course, they never did get it all.”

  “Cancer's tough,” I agreed.

  “Poor Peter and Abby didn't know whether to celebrate or cry. That's the funny thing about all of that. A woman can do terrible, brutal things to her babies and they'll still love her. It was the first funeral any of us had ever been to, and it was pretty scary.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Where were we?” Clarice asked, pulling herself out of her melancholy. “Oh, the plastic surgery. Abby had a great body for a sixty-eight-year-old woman. But that model was in her twenties and tough competition. She told J.B. to call her and tell her she couldn't come out again.”

  “I guess that didn't turn out the way she wanted.”

  “Basically he told Abby to butt out of his business.”

  Pretty ballsy for a guy who hadn't had a pot to piss in before his marriage.

  “What can you tell me about Laurette Le Blanc?” While Jodie Austin was drop-dead gorgeous, Laurette was no slacker in the looks department. The thought occurred to me that if J.B. fancied himself as a ladies' man, Laurette might have been high on his hit list.

  “As far as I know, J.B. never had a thing for Laurette, although who could blame him if he did? Half the men I know would pay to put their pee-pee in that woman. No, she was all business. I don't think Laurette even had a boyfriend.”

  “She hadn't worked for Abby very long,” I said, fishing.

  “You don't know that story?” Clarice gave me a dis-believing look. “They brought her back with them from their honeymoon!”

  “Brought her back?”

  “You know, like you might go to Italy and bring back some nice pottery, or Ireland and bring back Waterford, they went to St. Martin and brought back Laurette LeBlanc. She was working in L'Anse Margot in Nettle Bay and Abby thought she'd make a great secretary.”

  What was the wisdom of bringing such a gorgeous young woman into your household? Especially if you had a much younger husband with a straying eye? Had Laurette Le Blanc been a test for J.B.?

  “And Abby wasn't jealous of her?”

  “She never said anything. But frankly, it probably never occurred to Abby that J.B. would fool around with Laurette because of her color.”

  What a stupid attitude.

  “You have to understand that Abby loved collecting beautiful things. Of course you wouldn't know it by the cowboy house she remodeled up there, but if you were in some of her other homes, you'd see what I mean.”

  “That must have been quite a honeymoon.”

  “J.B. paid for the whole thing himself, he did. Every dime. Abby was really proud of that.”

  I wondered where J.B. had gotten the dough.

  “I've heard that they used to argue about money,” I said, feeling slightly guilty. After all, I was being paid by J.B. to investigate Abby's death, but so far most of my investigating had to do with pointing questions in his direction.

  “Well, they did fight about it, but only that first month or so they were married.”

  I thought about the bruises the medical examiner had found on Abby's body. “Did she ever say anything to you about J.B. abusing her?”

  “You mean like hitting her?”

  I nodded.

  “Absolutely not. Listen, honey, Abby would never have put up with that. Not for a moment. She'd suffered enough abuse at the hands of her mother.”

  I knew abuse could be a perpetual thing and wondered how Clarice could be so sure of Abby's resistance to it, but let the subject drop.

  “Anyway, as I was saying, they fought that first month about money, but then Abby got smart and decided to give him some of his own so he wouldn't have to ask her fo
r any, or have to sit there, humiliated, in restaurants and stores while she fished out her credit card.”

  “So she gave him his own checking account?” I picked up my iced tea.

  “Checking account, hell. She gave him a million dollars.”

  My tumbler almost crashed against the glass top table.

  “A million dollars,” I repeated. “Abby forked over a million dollars to a guy she'd only known for a few months?”

  “Not just a guy, honey. He was her husband.”

  “No strings attached. I mean, she just gave him the money and he could do whatever he wanted with it?”

  “As far as I know.”

  Wow. J.B. really had hit the jackpot. If what Clarice was telling me was true, J.B. was a millionaire, his money secure. Even under the worst-case scenario, if Abby had decided to divorce him, he'd still have the money.

  My suspicion meter dropped a few points in his favor. He didn't strike me as particularly materialistic so why would he be greedy and kill her for the rest? Still, a million dollars was about $59 million short of what he was scheduled to inherit. I had to wonder, would he have been so cocky about Jodie Austin if he hadn't had the money? And why had he told me that his reason for running the bull school so soon after Abby's death was because he was worried about money?

  We talked for a while longer but Clarice Martínez dropped no more bombs.

  19

  MARTÍN AND QUINTA WERE PUSHING A FEW COWS AND A lame bull up the lane when I drove into the Vaca Grande. The cows were just along for the ride since it's usually easier to push a bull around if he's got company.

  I stopped the truck and shut down the diesel so we could talk as Martín reined his horse in. Quinta continued driving the cattle down toward the corrals.

  “Old Faded H has a hitch in his getalong, huh?” I said, for I recognized the Hereford bull. His ear tag had faded out a long time ago and we had resorted to calling him Faded H.

  “I thought I'd bring him in and see what's going on with that foot,” Martín offered.

  I was encouraged to see the Hereford with girlfriends, for he was very fond of another bull and hadn't been paying too much attention to the cows lately. Hanging out with the boys was definitely not the job he'd been hired to do.