Larkspur (12 page)

"Poor darlings." Lydia gave the tall stalk of delphinium a delicate pat. "They don't like
the heat."

I had not wanted another garden tour, but the charcoal briquets had proved balky and the
steaks weren't yet done. We had already endured a tour of Bill's gun room--lots of hunting rifles.
A deer-head had stared down at us from above Bill's desk. I do not like guns. In a spirit of
contrariness I had asked to see larkspur when Lydia offered to show me her flower garden. She
didn't bat an eye, though Janey made a small, strangled noise and D'Angelo winced.

We were waist-deep in
Delphinium
elatum
, and they were a trifle
droopy. All of Lydia's larkspur were blue perennials.

"The wrong kind for the murder," Janey muttered.

Lydia gave me a matey wink. "But so pretty. They're good in bouquets. Delphinium and
white glads with a puff of white or yellow mums at the base make a striking formal
arrangement."

"I'd get bored with blue." D'Angelo had carried his scotch with him from the patio. He
took a swallow. "They're a bit leggy, Lydia. What do you use on them, steer manure?"

"I try not to over-feed them." Lydia picked her way back to the flagstone path. We all
followed. "They need a lot of water in this dry heat. I hope the boy remembers to soak them
Friday morning." She bent and broke a dead blossom from something I couldn't identify. "Maybe
I'll try the annuals next year, with daisies and cosmos. What do you think, Win?"

"Too tall." D'Angelo swatted at a bee and the ice clinked in his glass. We had interrupted
the bees. "Get Denise to give you cuttings of her
grandiflorum
."

"I do like that color." Lydia turned back to me. "It's a Chinese variety, very deep blue.
Also a perennial."

"There's a native California annual," D'Angelo said. "It has scarlet blossoms, though.
Grows wild around here. Larkspur like high altitude."

Janey said flatly, "I think you're all horrid."

"Lydia!" Bill was flipping the steaks.

"Coming," Lydia called. "Mind that patch of mud, Lark. No point in ruining your
sandals."

I trod carefully.

"Well, you
are
," Janey insisted when nobody responded to her.

D'Angelo took another gulp of scotch. "People tend to be horrid. Especially when they're
relieved they won't be hauled off to the pokey and charged with murder."

We looked at him, Janey red-faced.

"When I heard that kid had run off with the Mercedes," he went on, dispassionate, "I felt
the purest relief and gratitude."

"Gratitude! He killed Dai!"

Lydia said, "Don't be obtuse, Janey. All Win means is that he's glad we can get on with
our lives. Mourn Dai properly," she added, lest Janey imagine she meant business as usual. "A
police investigation is apt to be unpleasant, darling. None of us was looking forward to the
intrusion into our private lives."

"Or to being pilloried in the press," I said sweetly.

We reached the round, wrought-iron patio table. Its striped umbrella fluttered in the
evening sea-breeze.

"Ready?" Bill roared. "T-bones coming up." He flopped three steaks onto a platter and
handed it to Lydia. "Ladies first, eh, Win?" He moved the other two steaks to the center of the
grill. The fat sizzled and smoked.

D'Angelo finished his scotch.

"Do have another drink, Win." Lydia pried the top steak off the heap onto my dinner
plate, helped herself, and passed the platter to Janey.

"I was about to." He made for the wet bar.

The steaks were large. I wondered if Lydia gave out doggie bags.

"Make me another, Win. Splash of soda." Bill looked around. "Damn it, Lydia, where's
the platter?"

Lydia rose and took the platter to him.

"That's the ticket. Where are those drinks? Ah, good. Put on the feedbag, Win. Chow
down." He laughed heartily. Bill was in high good humor, somewhat exaggerated by alcohol. He
patted Lydia's hand-woven skirt as she turned to come back to the table.

I took a sip of wine, red this time--
pinot
noir
, very nice with steak.
Lydia sat.

Bill trundled over with the platter, forked the steaks onto the plates, laid the platter on
the serving cart and sat down. The table wobbled. I steadied my wine.

"Where the hell's the Worcestershire sauce?"

D'Angelo turned back to the bar and retrieved a bottle of Lea and Perrins. He let Bill
pluck it and one of the scotches from his right hand, then sat with his own drink.

"My kind of meal," Bill said unnecessarily. He shook Worcestershire sauce over his
steak and slathered butter on his baked potato. "Sour cream anybody?"

We ate. As Bill beat his steak into submission and defeated the potato, he told us his
sensations when he saw his byline on the lead story in the Sunday
Chronicle
. The acme
of journalistic achievement.

I listened to Bill, wondering at the existence of the Huff Press, given his clear
predilection for news. Not just news, news with punch and screamer headlines. How frustrated he
must have been all those years writing editorials about sewer bond elections. And publishing slim
volumes of confessional poetry.

The steak was tender. I ate about half of mine and some salad nicoise, and sipped wine.
Janey was listening to her father and picking olives out of the salad. Win D'Angelo pulled
steadily on his scotch. Lydia chewed. Finally, Bill wound down.

"I'm sure you read Bill's story, Lark." Lydia smiled at me. "What did you think?"

About halfway between
USA
Today
and the
National
Enquirer
.

"It was fine," I lied.

Bill beamed. "Doing another follow-up on the Montez boy for the Sacramento
Bee
. Something has to be done about all these Mexicans flooding the state."

"Miguel has a green card," I said coldly.

D'Angelo was watching me over his scotch. He had matched Bill drink for drink but he
seemed cold sober. "Dodge talked to Miguel a lot that evening. What did they say?"

"I don't speak Spanish."

"Dodge had the kid save the wine glass." D'Angelo cut a bite of steak. "He must've
suspected poisoning all along."

That was obvious. I didn't respond.

Lydia said briskly, "Let's not keep hashing over the past, Win. Do you want a ride to the
airport?"

"No, thanks. I'll drive down myself."

"We'll have a couple of hours to kill afterwards, Lydia." Bill speared a forkful of salad.
"I'm going to drop by the paper."

"All right." Lydia glanced at me. "Your mother is coming, isn't she, Lark?"

I nodded. "She'll fly back with me afterwards. She wants to meet Win."

"She wants to go through Dai's journal and letters," D'Angelo muttered. He swallowed
scotch.

Janey was mushing her baked potato.

Lydia said brightly, "How exciting. Will you be doing a book together?"

"No!" D'Angelo bit his lip. "Sorry, Lydia, but that's silly. We're both going to be too
busy."

"Ah, of course, the Foundation..."

"Congratulations," I interposed. "It sounds exciting, a West Coast Bread Loaf."

"What bread loaf?" Bill blinked over his scotch glass.

"Oh, Daddy, the writer's colony," Janey muttered.

"Will you resign your job at the college?" I asked.

D'Angelo drew a deep breath. "I already have."

That was news. All three Huffs looked at him.

"It'll take a year for the will to be probated." Lydia leaned forward, eyes keen. "That's
what the lawyer told me."

"That's right."

"What are you going to live on?"

"My wife." D'Angelo began to laugh. "God, that's funny."

"Wife?"

"I'm getting married." He laughed on a cough and wiped his face with his napkin.
"Sorry."

"Good heavens, congratulations!" Lydia beamed at him. "Who's the lucky girl?"

"Martha Finn."

Everybody looked as blank as I felt.

Janey drew a breath. "Oh, the actress?"

"That's right."

"Well, well, this is a surprise." Lydia raised her wineglass in a half-toast. "Martha
Finn."

Bill looked from D'Angelo to his wife with an expression of glazed bewilderment.
"Who's Martha Finn?"

"She runs that repertory company out on the coast." Lydia set her glass down and began
stacking plates. "Wasn't she with the Shakespeare Festival for a while?"

"Five years." D'Angelo set his salad bowl on his mostly uneaten steak. "That's where we
met."

"You've been very secretive."

"Yes." He smiled at her like the shark in the
Threepenny
Opera
.
"That's one thing I've learned as a result of my long association with Dai
Llewellyn--circumspection. Martha and I are going to spend the winter in Italy. We leave as soon after Labor
Day as she can wind up her accounts. When we come back I'll start setting up the writer's colony,
and she'll go into production at San Patricio. You can print that, Bill."

"Huh?" Bill was half asleep.

I got up to help Lydia clear the table.

"I envy you," Lydia said lightly. "Italy in winter."

"When all the tourists have gone home. I have been looking forward to it," D'Angelo
finished his scotch, "all of my life."

"Where are you staying, Florence?" I liked the thought of Italy myself.

"We'll gypsy around." He got to his feet. "And now, friends, I am going to ask the
delightful and steel-nerved Miss Dailey to follow me home. I have imbibed more scotch than is
strictly legal, but I don't see any other way to get my car to my apartment."

"I'll drive your car over in the morning," Janey muttered. "I can run back. I need the
exercise." D'Angelo's apartment complex lay a couple of miles closer to town.

D'Angelo blinked. "Ah. Well, if you don't mind. I do have to leave for the airport by
five-thirty in the morning."

"It'll be there."

He gave her a wide, sweet smile. He was a good-looking man in a grizzled middle-aged
way.

Janey blushed.

"Thanks." He fished in his pocket. "Here are the keys. No, I'll need the key to the
apartment." He detached the car key from the ring and handed it to Janey. "There."

"Can I interest anyone in coffee?" Lydia was losing control of the situation and looked as
if she didn't like the idea. She probably had black bottom pie waiting in the pantry.

"No, thanks," I murmured. "I ought to try for an early night, too, Lydia. And you'll be
wanting to pack. It was a nice dinner. Thanks." I grabbed my handbag.

Lydia gave in gracefully and followed us out to my car.

We had turned the first corner and were just out of sight of the house when D'Angelo
said, without preamble, "I want to talk to Dodge. Is he at the courthouse?"

I had strayed over the center line in my surprise. I pulled back in the right lane. "What is
it, eight-thirty?" The clock on my dashboard didn't work. Never had.

"Ten to nine."

"He may be, or he may be at my apartment. Won't it keep?" I negotiated the bridge
across Beale Creek, a dry boulder-strewn streak of gravel at that season.

"'It' will keep but my resolution won't. I'm going to make a confession. They say it's good
for the soul."

I clutched the wheel and drove very very carefully. I did my best to beat back my
imagination, but I had never believed Miguel guilty of Llewellyn's death, and there was a
murderer at large. If the murderer was Winton D'Angelo, I wasn't going to do or say anything to
trigger him off.

Fortunately there wasn't much traffic on the road. D'Angelo appeared to be drowsing.
His eyes were closed. I entered Monte on the old highway, which turns into Main Street at the
first set of traffic lights. My apartment was closer than the courthouse, so I drove slowly around
back. Jay's Blazer was in the bank vice-president's slot and there were lights above.

"He's home." Oh, the relief.

D'Angelo gave a slight start and straightened up. "Yet once more unto the breach..."

I parked. "I'm going to take you up the back way. The press has been camping on my
doorstep." In fact, I was no longer besieged by reporters.

"Circumspection called for." He giggled. "I'm a Doctor of Circumspection." He sounded
more drunk than he had at the Huffs. However, he followed me up the back stairs quietly.

Jay was sitting on my couch reading a sheaf of papers. He was wearing his favorite
off-duty outfit--cutoffs and a tee shirt. He looked freshly showered to me. I don't know how he
looked to D'Angelo. Unkempt, probably. D'Angelo was a natty dresser.

"You're home early..." Jay's voice trailed when he looked up and saw D'Angelo. He set
the papers on the coffee table and got to his feet.

"Win has a confession to make," I said in what I hoped was a neutral voice.

Jay met D'Angelo's eyes for a long unsmiling moment. "I think it's more likely Professor
D'Angelo has something to add to his statement." He looked at me. "Coffee?"

"Good idea." I tossed my handbag at the couch and went into the kitchen. As I loaded up
the automatic brewer I could hear Jay and D'Angelo exchanging courtesies. The little light came
on, the machine burped, and coffee began to trickle into the pot. I went back into the living
room.

"...if you have a recorder," D'Angelo was saying.

"Is it going to be necessary?"

Jay had seated D'Angelo on my grandma's platform rocker, the most comfortable chair I
own.

D'Angelo ran a hand through his hair. "Well, I thought ..."

"Why don't you just give me your explanation? We can worry about the formalities
later." Jay sat on the couch. I slid in beside him.

"If that's all right..."

"Sure."

D'Angelo cleared his throat then looked away, giving a tight little laugh. "Jesus, this is
not easy." He drew a breath. "I wouldn't tell you at all if I thought I had a chance of getting away
with it, but Mary Dailey is coming. She'll bring Dai's papers with her--
we
will, because
we'll meet the lawyers and get the stuff from the townhouse together. That was her
suggestion."