Slow Kill - Michael Mcgarrity [15]
An hour passed before the coroner hurried out carrying a small cardboard box. He loaded it in the trunk of his unit and drove away. Lowrey soon followed, stopping to thank Kerney for his cooperation.
“No problem,” Kerney said.
“I still haven’t heard back if Spalding’s wife has been notified,” Lowrey said.
“I take it she’s not the first Mrs. Spalding.”
“No, ex-wife number one lives in Santa Barbara.”
He decided to tell Lowrey his plans. “I’m staying over until this gets resolved. How long do you think it will take?”
Lowrey blinked. “Through tomorrow night should do it.”
Kerney stood, brushed off the seat of his jeans, fished Lowrey’s business card from his shirt pocket, and waved it at her. “Good. I’ll find a motel and let you know where I’m staying.”
“Don’t you want to know what I found in your luggage?”
“Nothing of any consequence, I’m sure,” Kerney replied.
Lowrey nodded and walked away.
Kerney went inside, found his return airline ticket and car rental agreement, and changed his travel itinerary by phone. Then he called long distance information and got a phone listing for an A. Spalding in Santa Barbara.
A woman answered on the first ring. Kerney identified himself as a police officer and asked if she was Clifford Spalding’s former wife.
“I am not,” the woman replied. “That would be my employer, Alice Spalding.”
“May I speak to her?” Kerney asked.
“What is it in reference to?”
“Her ex-husband.”
“Talk to Mrs. Spalding’s lawyer. I can give you her office number to call in the morning.”
“Clifford Spalding died early today.” Silence greeted Kerney’s announcement.
“Where are you calling from?” the woman finally asked.
“Paso Robles,” Kerney said. “It’s important that I speak to Mrs. Spalding.”
“Why? What happened?”
“I can’t discuss it with you until all family members have been notified,” Kerney replied. “It’s policy. May I speak to Mrs. Spalding?”
“It’s best that you do it in person,” the woman said. “Alice has Alzheimer’s disease, and she doesn’t use the telephone much anymore. It confuses and upsets her.”
“How advanced is her condition?” Kerney asked.
“Deteriorating. It’s quite likely she won’t understand all of what you tell her, but I can never be sure. Sometimes she’s lucid, at other times she’s incoherent. Her mind wanders, her memory is impaired, and she goes off-topic frequently.”
“I can be there in two or three hours.”
“Don’t make it any later than that,” the woman said. “Alice fades in the evening.”
Kerney asked for directions and scratched them down on his road map, starting with which Highway 101 off-ramp to take once he reached Santa Barbara.
He left the ranch and headed south. Given Alice Spalding’s medical condition, Kerney wasn’t sure what he might gain from meeting her. But it felt good to be doing something.
The route to Alice Spalding’s house took Kerney through a tidy Santa Barbara neighborhood of charming Spanish Mission and Romanesque houses. He passed the Presidio, a low-slung adobe building joined to a large mission church with twin bell towers that framed the coastal mountains rising behind it. Tour bus visitors busily took pictures as they strolled the grounds.
Beyond the Presidio, the winding road climbed into hills where the houses were much larger, and more difficult to see through an increasing profusion of plants, shrubs, and trees. None of the flowering vegetation, a riot of rich blues, deep reds, vivid purples, and vibrant yellows, was familiar to Kerney. About all he recognized were the towering palm trees.
He found the right street and house number, and turned into a driveway barred by an electronic gate. He announced himself over the intercom, and the gate swung open.
He parked next to a high-end Japanese sedan and looked around. Pink and red flowers bordered a step-down cobblestone walkway to the house. Tall, thin evergreen trees that reached to the second-story tile roof line bracketed the entry.
Before he could knock on the thick, antique