“Damn shame,” said Archer.

  “What is?” said the coroner.

  “The guy getting murdered,” said Archer, snatching a look at the man.

  “Hell, if they didn’t there goes my job. Homicide is a thriving business in these parts.”

  This guy reminded Archer why he didn’t like hanging out with coroners. “Understand it was maybe a .38 or larger caliber.”

  The man lighted a stubby cigar pulled from his side jacket pocket and took a few puffs before hacking up maybe some leftover tobacco from his lungs and spitting it into the graveled driveway. “Looks to be. I’ll dig it out. Hey, you working the case with Phil?”

  “My client owns this place. Me and Phil are trying to find her.”

  “Private dick, then?”

  “Who works with the cops pretty regularly, yeah,” said Archer vaguely because he needed to be vague but he also needed information. “Think we’re looking at least twenty-four hours on the time of death?”

  “Sounds about right, little more, little less. Always tricky. Usually the stomach tells me a lot. We are what we eat, in life and in death.”

  “Did you guys impound a car on this one?” Archer asked this because, despite what Oldham had said about there not being a car, he didn’t believe anyone without corroboration.

  “Car? Nah, nothing like that. Just the body.” He flicked his ash into the grass. His fingers were so thick Archer wondered how he could hold a scalpel, much less use it to slice precisely through human tissue. But maybe he wasn’t that precise.

  “They got coyote and even bears up here, you know.” The coroner cleared his throat and waggled his wide head, taking his two chins along with the gesture. “Would not have been pretty if the body had been outside, no siree.”

  “It wasn’t pretty inside,” replied Archer curtly.

  A minute later the meat wagon pulled away with one of Oldham’s men driving while the other one went back inside. The coroner’s somber car trailed the wagon, with him idly flicking cigar ash out the window.

  Archer ground out his smoke, glanced back at the house, and then walked across the street. He stretched and took out his pack of Luckys, but then dropped it. This was intentional because he knew Oldham’s junior-grade man might be watching. He knelt down to pick the pack up and got a good look at the oil slick on the asphalt. It was relatively fresh, which made sense being there from at least the night before. On either side of Lamb’s house, but separated by about a couple hundred feet both ways, were her neighbors, Danforth and Bonham. He didn’t know which was which, so he took the one on the right first.

  The place was large and done in what Archer had come to learn was the Colonial Revival style because there was a lot of that around here. It had a main block and two wings with a brick chimney stack sprouting from one of them; another chimney stack soared into the sky from the rear. The porch was covered and had a wooden railing atop it, and there was a line of dormer windows fronting the roof. The yard was mostly rock and desert ground cover with a few gnarled scrub trees taking up space. He knocked and then knocked again. He heard nothing from inside.

  He walked over to the single-car garage. It was detached from the house with a short, roofed breezeway connecting the two structures. It had a copper roof that was being patinaed by the elements. Flowery vines wove through the lattice that covered the breezeway’s sides. The overhead garage door was solid wood with no windows, and it was locked. He went over to the side door of the garage that was under the breezeway. It was also locked. He peered through the upper glass partition. He couldn’t make out much, but there didn’t seem to be a car in there.

  He gazed around, took out his pocketknife, inserted it between the lock and doorjamb, and drew the locking bolt back. He pushed against the door and went inside. Archer flipped on the wall light switch and the illumination of one bare lightbulb cast the small space into murky shadows. The place smelled of oil, grease, gas, mothballs, and mildew, but held no car. Yet there was something of interest.

  He bent down and looked at the oil slick on the floor. He couldn’t tell if it had come from the blue Ford, but it might have. He also supposed most garage floors had oil slicks on them. However, this one looked quite fresh. And if the Bonhams had been in France for a while, their car couldn’t have made it.

  Had the Ford been driven in here after Archer had been attacked? Then it could have been driven away later. Or, again, maybe this slick had nothing to do with the one back on the road. Cedric Bender might be safely in Anaheim, unless he was headed for a slab at the LA County morgue.

  There were tools and long-spouted oil cans and the things one normally finds in a garage. He rifled through some old Life and Look magazines in a box. He checked the address labels. They were in the names of Peter and Bernadette Bonham of this address, Malibu.

  Archer returned the magazines to the box and went back outside.

  He passed through a waist-high wooden gate and entered the backyard. It was flatter and larger than Lamb’s was, with a patch of lawn and perimeter flower and shrubbery beds that looked well tended and watered, though with the canyon walls, it probably got only limited sunlight. There was no pool, like Lamb had. But maybe the Bonhams weren’t that sort.

  However, there was a span of lawn that was lumpy and uneven.

  Moles, thought Archer. They could do a number on the surface, all without seeing the light of day. Just like the bad guys.

  He went to the back door and knocked. He decided against picking the lock. A garage was one thing, a home was something else. And if Oldham caught him, Archer could see a charge of breaking and entering in his future and maybe sticking.

  Archer made an executive decision and moved on to something else that he hoped might hold promise but probably wouldn’t.

  And such was the life of a pavement-pounding PI on a slow dance to maybe nowhere.

  Chapter 15

  HE WALKED TO THE OTHER HOUSE, which he now knew was Mrs. Danforth’s. It was smaller than the Bonhams’ but larger than Lamb’s, and older. There was a good-sized bay window to the left of the front door, which had a small Judas window set at eye level. He knocked, and a few moments later he saw a head appear in the glass. The door opened to the extent of the latched brass chain.

  Two wide eyes peered anxiously through the gap. “Yes?”

  “Name’s Archer.” He flashed his license and asked if he could come in.

  “Is this about next door?” said the thin mouth below the pair of deep-set watery eyes.

  “Yes it is. I’m working with the police.” Forgive me, Lord, for I have lied. “You’re Mrs. Danforth?”

  “Yes, Sylvia Danforth.”

  “I’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s all right.”

  She undid the chain and revealed herself as small and shriveled with a silver curlicue wig, fake eyelashes, an easily discernible girdle to hold her figure the way it used to be, and enough makeup for pretty much any stage play. He thought she batted her eyes at him, but Archer couldn’t be sure; the light was tricky, and so might she be.

  The woman led him into a small front room piled with two things: furniture and cats. He had no objection to the first, and none really to the second. Even when three of them wrapped themselves around his ankles and one plopped on his lap when he sat down. However, when a fifth musketeer climbed on his shoulders he did file an objection with the court and picked it off, placing it on a couch. Set across the breadth of the room on a variety of surfaces were pink seashells burned brittle by the sun, frilly hassocks, an abundance of pincushions, and framed photos with dainty, dust-catching doilies underneath. Against one wall was a prewar phonograph on a table with a stack of records beside it. A large cabinet TV was next to it.

  She sat across from him, her features somber. Her thin, fragile lips trembled. “A policeman came by to ask questions. He said a man had been found dead. In dear Ellie Lamb’s home. I can’t believe it. Is she all right? He didn’t say.”

  “We don’t know. We can’t find her. When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “You remember the time?” Archer asked as he plucked the lap cat off because it was starting to claw his crotch.

  She tapped her thumb against her mouth. “Time, time…it’s so difficult, you know.”

  Archer took out his notebook and pencil and chewed on the eraser end. “Well, let me help you out. Was it daytime or nighttime? Let’s start with that and work our way along.”

  “Oh, the daytime, certainly the sun was still up.”

  “How long does the sun stay up in the canyon this time of year?”

  “Oh, not that long. Three or four p.m. at the most.”

  “Okay, was the sun starting to go down when you saw her?”

  “Oh, I see what you’re doing. How clever.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I certainly try.”

  “I think the sun was going down. Yes, it was definitely growing dark.”

  “Was she walking? Driving? Did she come by to see you?”

  “She drove by in her car, that little silver one.”

  “You didn’t see her after that?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone else around yesterday?”

  “No, the Bonhams are in France. I told the nice policeman that, too.”

  “But other people live on this road.”

  “Yes, but these three are the only houses around here. The others are farther down, or farther up, and they’re around long bends.”

  “Okay, you ever see a dark blue four-door Ford parked across the street from Lamb’s house?”

  She looked uncertain. “No, I don’t believe so.”

  “Do the Bonhams have a car?”

  “They do, but they drove it to the airport before they flew to France.”

  “When was that?”

  “They left about a month ago. They like to spend time there. She’s French.”

  “They fly out of LA International?”

  “That’s right.” Her expression grew animated. “I went to Europe back in 1921. My husband, Oliver, and I went by ocean liner. We sailed out of New York and over to Southampton. We got dressed up and danced every night. It was very romantic.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Oh, where are my manners? Would you like something to drink? I have coffee, orange juice, or scotch.”

  Archer was a bit taken aback by this wide selection. “Um, I don’t know. What do you usually have?”

  “Don’t let me influence you, young man. But I don’t like coffee or orange juice. On the other hand, I am partial to scotch.”

  Archer glanced at a grandfather clock in the corner to check the time. “I guess a finger of scotch would be fine.”

  She clapped her small hands together. “Oh good, I was hoping for a visitor today so I could open the bottle. I don’t like to drink alone, and the cats don’t count. And the nice policeman was on duty and couldn’t imbibe.”

  She left and came back with two large scotches. Archer noted that his finger of liquor had transformed into a hand.

  He took a sip while she seemed to prefer a long swallow.

  “So, do the Bonhams just leave their place unoccupied?”

  “Oh, no. They have a gardener who comes. He makes sure everything is all right. And I keep my eyes open, too. We’ve never had a bit of trouble.” She took another taste of her scotch and wiped her small mouth with a hanky plucked from her sleeve. “Until now, of course. Do you think it’s the work of gangs?”

  He hiked his eyebrows at that one. “Do you have gangs up here?”

  “I don’t know.” She glanced at the TV. “I do watch Dragnet. They seem to have violent criminals all over.”

  “Do the Bonhams have kids?”

  “Oh, no. That’s why they can pick up and travel to France for months at a time.”

  “What can you tell me about Eleanor Lamb?”

  “She helps me with my cats and goes to the store for me. I don’t drive anymore.”

  “And your husband?”

  “Oliver died in 1943. He went out to water the plants and dropped dead in the flower bed.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you have any family left?”

  “Yes, my daughter, and my grandchildren, but they never visit. They live in Hartford. Her husband is an insurance executive. Apparently being an insurance executive requires one to live in Connecticut.”

  “So, anything else on Lamb?”

  “She was a writer.”

  “Past tense?” said Archer.

  She caught a breath and looked embarrassed. “I didn’t mean that. But there’s so much evil out there. You hear of a young woman missing and you assume the worst. They never did solve the Black Dahlia murder, you know. Someone cut the poor woman in half and drained all her blood.” She looked both sick and intrigued. “How demented do you have to be?”

  “Pretty demented. So, did she have any visitors? Boyfriends? Lady friends? Not the Black Dahlia, Eleanor Lamb.”

  “I never saw any. She lived a very quiet life.”

  “She ever talk to you about any problems?”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything, really. I heard she stopped going into the office and was writing at home.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I also heard that she moved out here to be closer to a friend.”

  Danforth looked genuinely puzzled by this. “I didn’t meet her until she moved here, and that was about two years or so ago. I don’t believe she knew the Bonhams before. She never mentioned anyone else.”

  “Did she make many changes to her house?”

  “Oh, yes. I went over there once while they were working. I knew the Hendersons, who lived there before. Ellie had the pool put in and the kitchen and bathrooms updated and, well, everything lightened up.”

  “What can you tell me about the Bonhams?”

  “Oh, Bernadette and Peter are delightful. They have another home in Paris.”

  “Paris, huh? They must have some serious dough.”

  “Oh, they do. Peter is very successful in business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Well, I heard that he worked overseas, sort of hush-hush. Maybe he was a spy. How thrilling that would be. Then he came back and then, oh, I guess he made money the way men usually make money.”

  “And their ages?”

  “Peter is over fifty. But Bernadette is only forty.”

  “Second wife?”

  “Oh no, it’s his first.”

  “You say you don’t drive, but do you have a car?”

  “Yes, it’s in the garage. It belonged to my husband. It’s a Buick Roadmaster. Oliver only had it two years before he passed. I’m old enough to remember when there were no cars. Just horses and buggies. I was originally from Oklahoma. I moved out here when I was a young girl because my mother thought the sea air would be good for her.”

  “And your father?”

  “That was the other reason my mother moved out here. To get away from him.”

  “You mind if I have a look at the car?”

  “Help yourself.”

  “So, you didn’t see Lamb after around three or so? But did you see a cab or another car come up here after she got back home?”

  “Oh, that’s right. I did see a taxi yesterday evening around six, one of those yellow ones. I was eating dinner on a TV tray and looking out the bay window. I went to the door to see where it was going and it turned into her driveway. She must have called for it. I assume she was going out to celebrate the New Year. I just stayed home with my cats and drank a glass of champagne at eight thirty. I can’t stay up until midnight anymore. I’m too ancient. And I’ve celebrated over eighty new years. It sort of loses its luster after that.”

  Archer knew that the cab was probably taking Lamb to Chasen’s. The only question was: Had she ever come back? She hadn’t been at the Marses’ party as far as Archer knew, but he would have to confirm that. So where had she gone between Chasen’s and when he was getting his head pummeled at her house?

  “And you wouldn’t have seen the cab bring her back because you were asleep?”

  “If it was after eight thirty, no.”

  “What time did you get up this morning?”

  “Oh, around seven thirty. Slept like a baby.”

  Archer rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, me too.” He rose and handed her one of his cards. “If you remember anything else you can ring me on this number. You can reverse the charges. It’s in Bay Town.”

  She took the card with fingers that were trembling. “Do…do you think anything has happened to dear, sweet Ellie?”

  “I wish I could answer that for you, Mrs. Danforth. I’m certainly going to try.”

  Chapter 16

  ARCHER GAZED IN WONDER at the four-door convertible Buick Roadmaster. It was thousands of pounds of metal and chrome with a grille and bumper that looked like the mouth of a saber-toothed tiger hunting for its dinner. Its interior was large enough to seat an Army platoon. Detroit knew how to make them back then.

  He peered under the car to see if there was an oil slick. There wasn’t. The tires looked dry rotted, and the interior smelled like no one had been inside since Mr. Danforth had fallen dead into the flowers. He was pretty certain the thing wouldn’t even start. And since he saw a pair of car keys hanging on a hook, he took the opportunity to test his theory.

  Deader than a doornail. Wouldn’t even turn over.

  He left Danforth’s, got back to his car, and headed down the canyon road.

  He stopped at a 76 service station, looked up the phone number, and made another call to Green and Ransome.

  “Yes?” said the voice.

  For one frozen moment, Archer thought it might be Eleanor Lamb.

  “Who is this?”

  “Who is this?” the woman countered.

  Now Archer knew it wasn’t Lamb.

  He explained who he was and why he was calling.

  “Oh my God,” said the woman. “I can’t believe this.”