especially pricey real estate in a city known for pricey real estate.

  The house showed its scorn for the cost of land by sitting a discreet distance back from the street with a lot of wasted yardage in front. Planters of geraniums, shockingly red in the December weather, lined a curving brick walk that led to some architect’s fevered dream of Victoriana. Enormous carved doors offered Biblical scenes, and a choice of a large bronze knocker that would have had them spanking Eve’s derriere—take that, you naughty apple pusher—or a more conventional doorbell. Tom reached for the knocker, but Stanley beat him to the draw and pushed the latter. Inside, chimes did an impression of Big Ben.

  After the chimes, silence. Stanley was about to ring again, maybe taking a hand this time to Eve’s bronzed bottom, when the door opened. Flew open, in fact, so violently that it struck the wall behind with a noisy thud. The young woman framed in the doorway was wide-eyed with what Stanley could only suppose was incipient hysteria.

  “I won’t,” she shouted at them, waving splayed fingers in the air somewhere in the vicinity of her face. “I won’t, I tell you, you can’t frighten me, I…” The words stopped abruptly. Red-rimmed eyes overflowed with tears and her shoulders began to tremble rather alarmingly.

  “Prudence!” A sharp voice came from the dim lit hallway beyond. “Dinia, where are you, you’re supposed to be looking after my sister? Damn.”

  Another young woman appeared. She took gentle but firm hold of the trembling shoulders. “Prudence, honey, you know you’re not supposed to answer the door. Come away, now.”

  “They can’t make me,” Prudence said, but in a defeated voice, 12 Victor J. Banis

  the fight gone out of her. She began to sob quietly and allowed herself to be tugged out of the doorway. A few seconds later, a Filipina maid hurried down the hall, almost running.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Patience,” she said, taking charge of the distraught woman. “I thought she was with you and…”

  “It’s all right, Dinia. Everything is so sudden with her. Perhaps if you took her to her room…?”

  “Yes, Miss Patience.”

  The maid and her charge disappeared up a large, curving stairway, the sobbing woman clinging to the elaborately carved mahogany banister, Patience Pendleton watching them go. Her back was to Tom and Stanley, but Stanley could see her face in a mirror on the wall. Watching the watcher, Stanley tried to read the emotions that flitted across her face, like windblown clouds before a storm—anger, frustration. Violent emotions, he thought, and not all of a piece. Certainly, not all of them loving.

  Not until the two on the stairs had vanished at the top did Patience turn back to Tom and Stanley, and give a great sigh.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, “I’m Patience Pendleton. Come in, please. And I think you can see why I wouldn’t come to your office. Dinia tries, but she was hired as a house maid, not a nurse. And my sister can be quite a handful. She’s very fragile, emotionally.”

  “I can see that.” Tom looked up the now empty stairs. “What’s she on?” he asked.

  Their hostess blinked, looked as if she were about to make an angry retort, and instead sighed again. “Meth. At the moment.

  Come in, please.”

  Stanley’s practiced eye had been busily taking in his surroundings. The exterior of the house might be vulgar and showy, but the interior had been furnished by someone with both taste and the money to indulge it. A table that he took to be authentic Sheraton stood in the foyer, topped with a Cloisonné bowl filled with yellow chrysanthemums, and over it all hung DeaDly Silence 13

  a Modigliani. A second rate Modigliani, to be sure, but worth a pretty penny nonetheless. On the way here, he and Tom had agreed upon a fee. Now he was thinking perhaps they should revise it upward.

  She led them through wide double doors that opened into a sitting room that was comfortably furnished and immaculate. A grouping of mezzotints and eighteenth century engravings filled much of one wall, and opposite them hung a pair of Hullmandels.

  The Chippendale chairs were almost certainly the real thing and the little cherry-wood tables next to them glowed with such industrious polishing that you felt the wood must surely be warm to the touch.

  Yet to Stanley, who had enjoyed some success in the past as an interior decorator, the overall effect was not entirely successful.

  It was a contrived elegance, carefully, even artfully planned and executed, but in the end it looked like a decorator’s model room, and not one in which real people, with real personalities, could live and be comfortable.

  Their hostess crossed this room without pause, and opened French doors onto a small flagstone terrace. A glass topped table was surrounded by two wicker chairs and a settee upholstered in plush pillows covered with the sort of bright red and green foliage unknown to nature.

  The terrace overlooked an even smaller but elegantly landscaped garden. A high brick wall, topped with metal spikes, was fronted by a thick row of flame red canna lilies. The wall guaranteed privacy on three sides, seeming even to block out the traffic sounds from the street beyond. It was an oddly countrified patch to be found in the midst of an urban setting, and it might have been too cool to be comfortable, but the high walls held back the December air as well as the noise, and an electric heater overhead kept much of the rest of the chill at bay.

  Stanley was surprised when the woman who had been walking in front of them turned to face them. He hadn’t realized at first glance how good looking she was. And he was surprised, because 14 Victor J. Banis

  he could see now that she was a twin, an identical twin at that, to the woman who had opened the door, and the impression that shrieking woman had given had not been one of prettiness.

  Patience Pendleton was pretty, though, or close enough to prettiness as to make little practical difference. He guessed her to be in her late twenties, though the severity of her hair style—pulled tightly back into a bun that lay on the nape of her neck—and her almost total lack of makeup, made her look older than she probably was. She had what Stanley thought of as poached egg eyes, wide, and with what seemed an abundance of white showing about the gray-green of the pupils. They lent her a peculiar kind of innocence.

  He expected that men found her attractive, and though he rather thought she might not respond in kind to the attention of men—she had, in fact, a kind of odd sexless quality about her—

  he also rather suspected she was not above using their interest to her advantage.

  She was dressed conservatively, a plain linen skirt, expensive but modest, and a sleeveless Navy blouse. No jewelry save a single rope of pearls about her throat. Real oyster, too, Stanley decided, but tasteful. There was nothing showy about her. The house, at least its vulgar exterior, said nouveaux riche, but its occupant had the look of old money.

  But the calmness she contrived to display, in contrast to the hysteria of the sister who had greeted them at the door, was not an easy calm. She held her somewhat stocky body tautly, as if only by an effort of will could she restrain her own emotional storms, and the gaze with which she regarded them was extraordinarily intense. Stanley had the impression she was judging them in some way. He was not at all sure if they had passed muster with her or not.

  “Will you have a drink?” she asked. She gave Tom a weighing look. “I’m guessing Scotch.”

  “I wouldn’t turn it down,” Tom said, and Stanley, giving him a frosty look, said, “Did I hear mention of iced tea? We don’t drink on the job. Alcohol, that is.”

  DeaDly Silence 15

  If she took that seriously she gave no sign of it. “Have a seat. I’d ring for Dinia, but as we all know, she’s busy at the moment.”

  They stood and waited while she disappeared and returned in a remarkably short time, with a glass of iced tea for Stanley and a tumbler of Scotch for Tom. He winked at Stanley over the rim of the glass and took a tentative sip. His eyes widened appreciatively.

  “The McCallen, eighteen years,” she said. “I don’t drink much, but if I’m going to indulge myself, I don’t see any point in stinting.” She motioned them to the two chairs and seated herself in the settee. Tom’s eyes flicked automatically to her legs—very shapely legs, he couldn’t help being aware. She hardly seemed to notice, but one hand tugged her skirt down ever so slightly.

  “Well, now you’re acquainted with at least one of my family’s skeletons,” she said. “That was my sister Prudence at the door.”

  “Twins, yes?” Stanley said.

  “Observant of you.” Stanley flushed, but she took pity on him. “Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound waspish. Yes, we’re identical twins. When we’re dressed alike it can be very difficult to tell us apart. That, of course, supposes she isn’t having one of her fits. I myself am not prone to them. It is one of the significant differences between us.”

  “You haven’t thought about a rehab clinic for her?” Stanley asked. “They work with meth a lot these days.”

  The look Patience gave him was withering. “Only a thousand times. You’re Mister Korski, right? She’s been in and out of every kind of rehab you can think of, for every kind of drug you can name. And she does it well, rehab, I give her that. She’s got it down pat. A month, three months, six months, and she’s home free, cured, clean. For a few blessed, maddening weeks, she’s absolutely fine. Maddening, because you always know it can’t last.

  16 Victor J. Banis

  “Then she discovers another way to silence the demons, some new high. This one, she’s always going to manage, she won’t let it get out of control. And she does manage it, for a while. She’s managing the meth. If you didn’t know her well, or know the drugs, you’d maybe never notice. Except, like today, when she freaks. That gives her away, naturally. But that doesn’t happen so often. Most of the time she seems perfectly in control.”

  “What exactly are these demons she’s trying to silence?” Tom asked.

  She fixed those large eyes on him. It occurred to Tom that Patience Pendleton was not without demons of her own, though it was possible her demon was singular, and named Prudence.

  “Who knows what demons eat away inside anybody?” she said. “Whatever they are, they’re her own, entirely personal. We share a lot. Just not that. I don’t ask, she doesn’t tell.”

  Which Stanley doubted. Twins? He’d known a couple of pairs over the years. They shared everything, in his experience, including the occasional trick—he’d been the lucky third a time or two in the past. And identical twins were even closer. It often seemed they didn’t even have to talk about things, it was like they both just knew.

  Which left him wondering why Patience wanted them to think otherwise. Maybe she and her sister were the exceptions, but he suspected she knew very well what went on inside her sister’s mind. For whatever reason, she wasn’t inclined to tell them. He thought of that odd look she’d sent after her sister as she disappeared up the stairs, a look he felt sure he hadn’t been intended to see.

  And, perhaps something else she did not share with her twin.

  chaPter three

  “You called us about your father,” Tom said. “Is this in any way related to your sister’s problems?”

  She gave him a blank look. “No. Or at least, I don’t see how the two could be related.”

  “Someone messed with your father’s insulin, you said. Any idea who? Or why?”

  “No. Not who, anyway. As to why…” She shrugged, and looked around them. “There’s money. Not as much as you might think, the way we live. We’ve been living beyond our means for a while, now, but I wouldn’t say we’re threatened with dire poverty yet, either. So…well, money’s always a motive, isn’t it?”

  “For whom?” Tom asked.

  Another shrug. “That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question.” She hesitated. “I might as well tell you about this, though I think it’s going to give you the wrong idea. Our father made mention a little while ago, before he went in for that knee surgery, of changing his will. He intended… Oh, I’m not sure exactly what he intended. I’m not even sure he intended anything, that he really meant to change the will the way he said. He may just have been stirring stuff up. He likes to do that. At the time, he was pissed at Zack. That’s our brother.”

  A light bulb went off in Stanley’s head. “Zack?” He said it in surprise, hardly thinking. “Zack Pendleton?”

  She fixed a wary eye on him. “Yes. He’s our brother. Do you mean to say you know him?”

  “I…well, no, not exactly,” Stanley stammered. He looked helplessly at Tom, who only looked puzzled back at him. “I mean, yes, I know him.” Stanley giggled a little self consciously. “Not in the Biblical sense, of course. I just mean, I know who he is.”

  She regarded him for a long moment with an expression that 18 Victor J. Banis

  said she knew perfectly well what he wasn’t saying. How could he, though, at the moment explain Zack, the Castro Queen, to his sister? He was reminded again that the Castro really was a very small town.

  “Yes. Well.” She took a few seconds to examine her unstylishly short but perfectly polished nails. “If you know Zack, you must know he’s homosexual. It may surprise you to know that our father didn’t know, until recently.”

  “Why would that surprise us?” Tom asked.

  She looked from him to Stanley. “Maybe you’d better explain.”

  “Zack isn’t exactly discreet,” Stanley said.

  Tom said, “Oh,” and nodded. A butterfly, was what Stanley was telling him.

  “You’re being polite,” Patience said. “He’s as gay as a Christmas goose. But, maybe Father just chose not to know. People do that sometimes, I believe. When he finally learned, or when the truth was forced on him, he was quite upset. There were some angry words exchanged. That’s when the will came up. But frankly, I don’t think any of it mattered too much. They’ve had rows before. After a day or two, tempers cooled down, and nothing more was said on the subject. So, yes, I suppose you could make a case that Zack had a motive, but it’s vague at best. Anyway, can you imagine Zack trying to kill someone?” This directed to Stanley.

  “People can be surprising,” Stanley said. “Especially so where money is concerned.”

  “But that’s what I’m trying to say, it isn’t. At least I don’t believe so.”

  “When you say your father talked about changing his will…

  did he give any clue as to what changes he had in mind?”

  “As the will stands now—and it does still stand this way—

  most everything is divided equally between the three of us: Zack, DeaDly Silence 19

  Prudence and myself. There are a couple of modest bequests.

  Aunt Dora, that would be my father’s sister, gets fifty thousand, as I recall, and there’s a bit less for our cousin Jennifer. But, for the most part, it’s the three of us. And I should probably add, Father has long talked about whether I shouldn’t get Prudence’s portion, since it is I who have the responsibility of caring for her. I think he’s always understood that she herself is little suited to handling money. Or anything. The truth is, I already handle her money for her. There’s a trust fund, you see, our mother set that up when we were babies. We each of us get an allowance.

  But Prudence has never been any good with money. I’ve always handled her financial affairs for her.”

  Tom said, “And your sister is agreeable to that arrangement?”

  “Absolutely,” she said in a voice that brooked no challenge.

  This was not, apparently, a subject open to discussion.

  “And when your father was angry at Zack, he talked about leaving everything to you?” Stanley suggested.

  “Yes. He didn’t say exactly, but that’s more or less what he hinted at. Everything of course but those couple of odd bequests.”

  She thought for a moment. “Which I suppose eliminates me as a suspect, doesn’t it, since I’d have done better if he had changed his will. Relatively better, anyway, if you want to look at it like that. But, really, it’s all nothing but a lot of chatter. Zack knows, I made it quite clear to him, that nothing would change even if the will were rewritten. I would still look out for his interests. Just the same as I do for Prudence. I assure you, Zack had no fears on that score.”

  “Okay, an aunt and a cousin. Apart from them, and your brother and sister, there’s nobody else?” Tom said. “I mean, anyone who would be affected by the will? If it were changed?”

  “No.” She lifted her eyes as if appealing to the heavens—

  pink and lavender had bled across the faded sky, the wounds of a dying day. She added, in a voice that suggested, if not quite convincingly, that this idea had just occurred to her, “Oh, I 20 Victor J. Banis

  suppose Farley, if you wanted to think of it like that. It would be kind of stretching the point, though.”

  “Farley?”

  “Whitaker. He is…was, at least, I’m not sure now…Prudence’s fiancée. Frankly, I’m not sure, really, if he was even then. I think he liked to think so.”

  “So he might have thought he would be marrying money,”

  Stanley suggested.

  She fixed those enormous eyes on him and smiled without amusement. “I think he must have dearly hoped for that. But it was a futile hope. I’d never have let them marry.”

  Up till now, Stanley had thought a number of her remarks were ambiguous, but she said that with such absolute conviction no one could doubt that it was so. Only, Stanley wondered if Prudence had nothing to say in the matter. Or Farley Whitaker himself, even. Patience Pendleton, it seemed, ruled her Pacific Heights kingdom with an iron fist. And what then of her father?

  Had she ruled him as well?

  “You don’t think this Farley is suitable,” he asked aloud.

  She gave a dry chuckle. “Farley Whitaker is absolutely as suitable a man as a woman could hope to find. He’s handsome and charming and polished. And as my old Aunt Clara might have put it, he doesn’t have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of. I think he saw in Prudence a pot to call his own, and you can see for yourselves we have windows aplenty. Understand, we have never suffered for lack of would-be suitors, my sister and I.