Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [74]
“That’s Stan. When he’s unsure of a situation, he tries to avoid it entirely.” The woman gave W.C. a final pat and moved back to the sales desk.
“I don’t suppose you could help me with his home address,” I said. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but it’s for a good cause.”
She examined me thoughtfully through her glasses. “Why do you really want to see Stan?”
I was silent, trying to come up with a believable explanation.
“Look,” she added, “I don’t like Stan one bit. Don’t like Ann much, either. They’re both opportunists without any real ethical base, so I don’t feel bound to treat them in an ethical manner. But I would like to know what I’d be getting myself into.”
I took out my wallet and showed my identification. “Stan’s connected with a missing-person case I’m investigating.”
“Oh.” She seemed disappointed that the reasons for my interest in her employer’s husband weren’t more damning. “Well, I’m not supposed to give the address out, but I guess nobody will ever need to know where you got it.”
“Of course not.”
Her fingers tapped against the desk and frown lines appeared above the nosepiece of her glasses. “All right,” she said, “I’ll give you the address on one condition.”
“Yes?”
“Buy W.C. from me. I work on commission, and if I don’t make a substantial sale today, Ann’ll dock my weekly draw.”
I glanced at the cranky old parrot, who had slumped on his perch once again; it was the best trade I’d ever been asked to make for information. “Wrap him up and write down the address,” I told her.
* * *
Navarro and Brockowitz lived not in San Clemente but in a rural area to the east near the Riverside County line. It was citrus country, and the gently rolling hills were covered with acre after acre of orange, lime, grapefruit, and avocado trees. As I drove through it I reflected that this was the way the whole of Orange County had once been, before oil pumping stations reared their bobbing heads and the developers arrived to pump their own riches from the burgeoning economy. There wasn’t nearly so much money to be had from tending groves of shiny-leafed trees, but to my mind they were far more scenic than the housing tracts that sold out before their rafters rose or the condominium complexes that stretched for miles of pseudo-mission sameness.
The woman at the Swallow’s Nest had given me explicit directions, and I soon reached a little town called Blossom Hill. It wasn’t really a town at all, just a post office, grocery, and gas station. I paused at its four-way stop, circumvented a mongrel that was lying in the middle of the intersection, and continued until I came to the first road on the right. It took me deeper into the groves, about a mile, and then I spotted a white Victorian on a hill.
It was one of the big country-style Victorians—totally different from the narrow citified houses of San Francisco. Wraparound porch, three stories, square and substantial. A drive wound up through the trees and bisected a spacious lawn. Roses bloomed along the house’s walls—ancient ramblers. A maroon Volvo stood at the top of the drive, and in the old-fashioned porch swing sat a dark-haired woman in a flowered dress.
I kept driving, then pulled over when I was sure the trees and slope of the hill concealed me. Navarro’s clerk had told me that her employer and her husband owned seven acres, most of it in groves that a caretaker looked after. She’d visited the property only once and said she’d found the lack of fencing and other security precautions strange for a man of Brockowitz’s paranoia. I looked around, then got out of the car and moved into the shelter of the grove. The trees hung heavy with oranges; their leaves brushed against me as I climbed.
The grove ended where the lawn began. A rose arbor, overgrown by gnarled vines, stood between me and the house. I inched forward and peered through it. The woman was still in the porch swing—not doing anything, just sitting with her hands clasped in her