Silent Witness (6 page)

It was his third time, driving slowly past the entrance to the tree-shaded lane that served both the house and the winery buildings. Decision time, the first decision of many, he suspected, in the matter of Janice Hale versus Dennis Price. Should he opt for the high profile, flashing the plastic ID, watching the eyes flicker when the words “private investigator” were spoken? Or should he pose as a tourist, ostensibly sightseeing while he learned all he could before he finally confronted Dennis Price?

It was, he knew, a pointless speculation. As always, he would improvise, making up the script as he went along.

He checked the mirrors, made a U-turn, drove back to the entrance to the property, and drove slowly between two pillars made of fieldstone. A large bronze plaque was fixed to one of the pillars:
BROOKSIDE WINERY, ESTABLISHED
1941. It was a touch of class, a claim on history. The winery’s vineyard, someone had said, was forty acres. How much had it cost, to buy a winery almost fifty years old? A million? Two million? More?

The lane forked just ahead. A sign and arrow directed winery-bound traffic to the right fork. He let the Corolla coast to a stop at the fork. To the left, across a broad green lawn dotted with lawn furniture and croquet wickets, shades of English country living, he saw the house. It was three stories, vintage redwood and weathered cedar shingles, just as Fowler had described it. The verandahs were broad, the generous bay windows were multipaned, the massive chimneys were fieldstone. Beyond the rustic wonderment of the house he saw the sparkle of sunlight on the surface of a large swimming pool. A visitor to the house would turn left, toward a redwood-and-shingle garage and a collection of small outbuildings, then turn left again, into a circular gravel driveway that served the house. The gravel of the circular driveway was a sparkling white, enhancing the white of the lawn furniture and croquet wickets. When they played croquet, Bernhardt wondered, did the men wear white flannels and the women pleated white skirts?

He put the car in gear, and turned right. Matching Fowler’s description, the terrain rose behind the house, so it was not until he topped a low rise that he saw the winery buildings clustered picturesquely together in a hollow between the house and the surrounding vineyards. One of the buildings—obviously the original—was made of rock, with small windows, a low shingled roof, and a wide iron-studded, wood-planked door. The other buildings, of recent vintage, were made of wood, with black asbestos roofs. Behind one of the buildings, Bernhardt saw three cylindrical stainless-steel tanks. Several trucks and cars were parked at random among the buildings. A small bungalow, white clapboard and ornamental green shutters, was set apart from the winery buildings. This, Bernhardt knew, would be the winery foreman’s house. Al Martelli.

Another sign and another arrow directed him to visitor parking, a small gravel lot defined by large redwood logs laid directly on the ground. There was only one vehicle in the visitors’ lot, a custom painted boss four-wheel-drive pickup with four lights clamped on a big black roll-bar mounted behind the cab.

He parked beside the pickup and switched off the Corolla’s engine. It was decision time. Improvisation time. He’d been doing investigations part time for more than three years, at first working for Herbert Dancer, then for himself. For six months, he’d been on his own.
Alan Bernhardt, Private Investigations.
Yet, every time out, it always came down to this: improvising as he went, catch-as-catch-can. Pick a role. Any role. For the Fowler interview, he’d chosen to play the part of the earnest amateur, seeking wisdom. But what now? Another situation, another persona. It was both the actor’s fate and the detective’s dilemma.

To select from his actor’s bag of tricks, he must first decide on the mission. Why, precisely, was he there? Primarily, he was looking for background on Dennis Price. What kind of a man was Dennis Price? What was his reputation? To Janice Hale, Price was a fortune hunter, a gigolo, a parasite. To Fowler, Price was just another playboy, another city slicker, posing as something better.

To his wife, in her last moments, Dennis Price might have been a murderer.

And John? At age seven, the only son of star-crossed parents, how did John fit into the puzzle? Had John been a witness to his mother’s murder?

As if the thought had materialized into substance, he saw a small boy on a bike. Riding fast downhill, coasting, feet off the pedals, head gleefully flung back, abandoned to the thrill of speed, the boy came whizzing down the narrow macadam access road that led from the surrounding vineyards to the winery buildings. The road dipped at the winery buildings, then rose to join the graveled road that led to the Price family home, over the low crest of the hill. As he began to lose speed on the upgrade, the boy lowered his feet to the pedals, lowered his head, and began pumping. The boy was about seven, a classic Tom Sawyer boy: towheaded, freckle faced, blue eyes, pug nose, slim of limb and torso. Without doubt, this was John Price.

Bernhardt swung open his driver’s door and stepped out into the warm August sunshine. The boy was abreast of him now, pedaling harder, losing speed to the rising road. Should he call out to the boy, pretend to ask directions, hopefully to strike up a conversation? No, it would be a bad beginning. If the boy braked he would lose momentum, lose his contest with gravity. To a bike rider, stored downhill momentum was precious.

The boy was standing up on the pedals now, working hard. As, yes, he made the crest of the rise. Watching the towhead disappear, Bernhardt heard closeby voices. Turning, he saw three men approaching the candy-striped boss pickup. The man in the center was taller than his two companions, and plainly exercised a kind of freewheeling authority. Dressed in tight blue jeans and a tight red T-shirt, the tall man had the muscles of a weight lifter and the dark, snapping eyes of a lead tenor:
Carmen’s
Don Juan, incarnate. His thick black hair was curly, another operatic cliché. And, yes, the phrase that best described the tall man’s features was ruggedly handsome. His manner, the restless energy in his voice, and his pattern of movement all suggested the final cliché: animal magnetism.

As the three men came closer, the sound of the tall man’s voice separated into words: “I think you’d better figure it both ways, Cal. Give me a flat quote, then give me an estimate on the materials, if we decide to do it time and materials.”

“Right.” One of the men nodded briskly. He carried a clipboard with an air of authority.

“You understand,” the tall man said, “that you’ve got to work the numbers out tonight, and bring them by tomorrow morning. And you’ve got to be ready to start Monday, first thing. We’ve got to have that press working by this time next week. There’s no other way. None.”

“Jesus, Al—” The shorter man shook his head. “Five days—” Sighing, he swung open the driver’s door of the pickup as his companion got into the truck on the other side. “I can
try
for Friday. But I can’t guarantee it, not a hundred percent. I mean, things can happen, you know, on a job like this.”

As the car’s engine blanked out the rest of it, Bernhardt considered. “Al,” one of the men had said, suggesting that this handsome man with his stuntman’s muscles and his rich, restless voice could be the foreman, Al Martelli, the man who had been present at the murder scene when Sheriff Fowler arrived.

As he thoughtfully listened to the three men say their country-style good-byes, Bernhardt decided on his tactical persona: the brisk, bluff, savvy, completely self-assured detective who, nevertheless, knew enough to mind his manners. When the pickup began to back away, he stepped forward: three long, firm strides, setting the tone. His voice, too, was firm as he extended his outstretched hand, confidence incarnate.

“Mr. Martelli?”

Half-turned away, the tall man turned back to face him. “That’s right …” Martelli’s face was noncommittal as he grasped Bernhardt’s outstretched hand. Predictably, the other man’s grip was solid muscle.

“I’m Alan Bernhardt, Mr. Martelli. I’m a private investigator. I’ve been retained to, ah—” Momentarily the words came abruptly to an end. But then, surprise, the flow returned: “To clarify some of the details surrounding Mrs. Price’s death. It has to do with, ah, her estate.” Hearing himself say it, the first improvisation, Bernhardt was gratified. A mention of the dead woman’s estate smacked of musty law libraries and stooped, fusty clerks, an inspired Dickensonian fillip.

“I’ve just come from Sheriff Fowler,” he said. Leading into the second improvisation: “He mentioned your name, suggested I contact you—” As he spoke, Bernhardt gestured to a nearby picnic table and benches placed beneath a huge oak. “Have you got a few minutes?”

Coolly, Martelli gave himself a long, deliberate moment to look Bernhardt over—twice. Then he gestured for Bernhardt to precede him to the picnic table. “I suppose,” Martelli said, “that you’ve got credentials.”

“Of course.” As they sat facing each other across the table, Bernhardt passed over his ID. Martelli studied it with interest, returned it, and slowly shook his head. “It’s incredible, you know. I mean—” He spread his muscle-bulged forearms. His dark, bold eyes were softened with the pain of recollection. “I mean, a couple of minutes—a few seconds—and everything changes. Not too long ago—six months, I guess it was—my sister’s daughter was killed by a drunk driver. She was twelve. She was in the crosswalk, had the green light. But this goddamn drunk—” As he shook his head, anger shown in Martelli’s eyes. It was a helpless anger, doubly embittered by deep loss. “And then, a couple of months ago, Con—Mrs. Price.”

As he noted the quick shift from the familiar to the formal, perhaps a clue to some secret liaison between this handsome hired hand and the mistress of the manor, Bernhardt decided on another gamble with names and faces: “I saw John, a few minutes ago. He seemed happy enough.”

Martelli shrugged. “Kids change every few minutes, in my experience. At least—” Another kind of pain shadowed the dark eyes. “At least, that’s how it is with my kids.”

Aware of the other man’s new moment of sadness, Bernhardt forbade inquiring about Martelli’s family. Instead, speaking conversationally, he said, “I understand from Sheriff Fowler that John was there when—” He let a beat pass. Then, suitably solemn: “When Mrs. Price was killed.”

Heavily, Martelli nodded. “Yeah …” As if to blind himself to the memory, he momentarily shut his eyes. Then, more softly: “Yeah, he was there. At least, he was in the house.”

“I gather that Mr. Price called you immediately after he discovered that his wife was murdered.”

“Yeah. Right.” Martelli drew a deep breath. Repeating: “Right.”

Bernhardt gestured to the small white frame house. “Is that your place?”

“Yes.”

“Were you there when she was killed?”

Silently, Martelli nodded.

“Did Mr. Price knock on your door?”

“No. He phoned. He told me to bring a gun. He said there’d been a prowler, that Con—that Mrs. Price was dead.”

Again, the false start, the shift from the familiar to the formal.
Had
Constance Price and Martelli played the mistress and the handsome servant game? She’d been desirable; Bernhardt had seen the pictures. And Martelli’s muscular persona was a metaphor for male virility, almost a stereotype.

“Did you see anything suspicious? The prowler, for instance, escaping?”

“No. Nothing.”

“When you got to the Price house, where was Mr. Price?”

“He was downstairs, in the living room. He was sitting on a sofa, and he had a shotgun.”

“He was worried that the prowler was still around. Is that why he had the gun—why he told you to bring a gun?”

“Right.”

“Had he called the police, by the time you got there?”

“He must’ve. Fowler arrived maybe ten minutes after I got there, no more.”

“Was John with Price, when you got to the house?”

“Yes. They were both sitting on the sofa, I remember that.”

“How was John acting, when you saw him?”

“Well—” Considering, Martelli frowned. “Well, he was—I guess you’d say he was stunned. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move. He just sat there with those big round eyes, staring. I remember thinking that it seemed like his face had gotten smaller, because his eyes looked so big. And he was pale. Very pale.”

“It sounds like he was in shock. Mild shock, anyhow.”

“I suppose he was.”

Bernhardt let a beat pass, then decided to ask, “Do you see much of John?”

“Oh, sure.” The answer came quickly, suggesting a fondness, a camaraderie. “He’s around here almost all summer. The rest of the year, they come up for weekends, from the city. So I see a lot of him.”

“What kind of a kid is he?”

“He’s a nice kid.” Approvingly, Martelli nodded. “He’s very imaginative. And cheerful, too. Very cheerful. He’s no crybaby, either. I wouldn’t say he’s a tough guy, or anything. But he’s got spunk.”

“You have children.” Bernhardt said.

Martelli’s face fell, revealing an instant’s vulnerability, a sadness. Clearly, Martelli’s emotions lay close to the surface.

“I’ve got two kids,” he answered, his eyes downcast, his voice low. “A boy and a girl. They live with their mother.” He let a moment of silence pass. Then, raising his eyes to Bernhardt, Martelli smiled: a wry, quizzical smile. “How about you? Do PIs get married and have children?”

At the question, Bernhardt felt the vulnerability revealed in his own expression, felt his eyes fall, heard his own voice drop huskily as he said, “My wife died, a long time ago.”

“Ah …” Martelli nodded. The single syllable was expressive, all that was required to signify the beginning of an understanding, one man to another. “Sorry.”

They sat silently for a moment, each one evaluating the other. To Bernhardt, the silence was evocative, signifying that possibly—just possibly—Martelli could help him, might even want to help if the right words were spoken, the right questions asked.

But it was Martelli who asked the lead-in question: “You seem to be very concerned with John. Why’s that?”