“And from the way you say that, I take it she’s not overly happy about it?”

  “She tolerates me, let’s put it that way. And she will you, too, of course. You’re here to do us a favor, after all. Just don’t expect hugs and kisses. Come on in.”

  She opened the door, stepped aside for him to go in before her. Hannah must have heard them pull up, was already walking across the room toward them as they came in.

  “Stanley. It’s been a long time,” she said, coming to offer him a firm handshake. A fluffy white poodle danced around her feet, unable to decide whether she was glad to see visitors or not. Hannah stepped on a paw, producing a yelp of dismay.

  “Josephine, you need some air,” Hannah said, scooping the poodle up and carrying her to a sliding door that opened onto the rear deck.

  DEADLY WRONG 39

  The diversion gave Stanley a chance to look Hannah over. If he hadn’t already known, he’d have guessed the two sisters’

  sexual orientation was switched around. Hannah looked butcher than Libby. She was taller, both big boned and lanky, where Libby had a kind of delicacy about her. Hannah was wearing jeans and cowboy boots, and an old Niners sweatshirt, torn at one armpit. Her height and sturdy build, and a long, aquiline nose, gave her a stern appearance. Her hair was longer than Libby’s, pulled back tightly into a pony tail and held together with a wide rubber band. Maybe, Stanley thought, this was just the way mountain women dressed. Or, maybe Hannah had looked in the mirror a long time ago and realized frilly wasn’t her best style.

  Her eyes were arresting, though—large and brown, but so dark that they could appear black when she frowned, as she had at the poodle, and she had an aura about her, again almost mannish, of strength. He wouldn’t want to arm wrestle her, he was sure.

  He gave the cabin a quick once over. The front room was long and narrow, and decorated in what he quickly thought of as “mountain comfortable.” Bare wood floors that probably got cold in the winter, with a big stone fireplace at one end that maybe offset that. A couple of worn corduroy sofas faced one another from opposite walls, an afghan in bright zigzags of different greens tossed over one of them. An old fashioned console model television sat cattycornered at the fireplace end, with a Barcalounger parked directly in front of it.

  And, here and there, evidence of a sometimes convalescent.

  One of those hospital beds you can crank up to a sitting position was folded in two at the moment and pushed against the wall next to a sofa. What looked like an oxygen tank sat in one far corner, an assortment of vials and pill bottles and gauze littered the top of a table beside the recliner. The room overall was a bit cluttered, suggesting not so much slovenliness as lack of time, or interest in cleaning.

  Hannah tossed the poodle unceremoniously out to the deck and slid the glass door quickly closed before the indignant Josephine could dart back in. “That dog’s a damned nuisance,”

  40 Victor Banis

  she said. “If it was up to me…” She turned back in time to see Stanley’s glance at the medical paraphernalia.

  “Mother has a touch of emphysema,” she said. “And a very mild diabetes. Plus whatever else she can find in the latest medical journal.” She gestured toward the kitchen that could be seen through an open doorway at the end of the room opposite the fireplace. “I just made some coffee. Or I’ve got some cold beer, if you’d rather.”

  “A glass of wine would be nice, if you’ve got any.”

  She had to think about that for a moment. “I do, as a matter of fact. Nothing fancy, a chardonnay, I think. Probably not cold, though. I could drop an ice cube in it.” She gave him a dubious look.

  “That works for me,” Stanley said. “I’m not a very pissy type.”

  “Good. I’m not either,” she said. “Libby?”

  “I’ll have the coffee. I want to do some painting once I’ve dropped Stanley off. If I have a glass of wine, I’ll take a nap instead.”

  Hannah led them into a kitchen that looked more feminine than she did—dainty curtains with little blue flowers sprinkled on them, wooden chairs with matching ruffled cushions tied on.

  “Have you seen Carl yet?” Hannah asked, finding the bottle of wine in a cupboard and a corkscrew in a drawer. It turned out she didn’t need the corkscrew: the bottle had a twist off cap. She looked at the label. “I said chardonnay, but it’s Sauvignon Blanc. That do?” She raised an eyebrow in Stanley’s direction.

  “Fine with me.”

  “I’m taking Stanley to see Carl next,” Libby said. “I thought you’d want to see him first.”

  Hannah took a large wine glass from a shelf, held it up to the light from the window to inspect it and, deciding that it passed muster, dropped a couple of ice cubes into it and filled it with the pale yellow-green wine. She handed it to Stanley and busied herself with cups and coffee for her sister and herself.

  DEADLY WRONG 41

  Stanley took a tentative sip. “Nice,” he said, which was an exaggeration, but only a bit of one. He nodded his approval. At least it was cool and dry, and after the hassle of getting here, refreshing.

  “Well, you can’t expect too much for two ninety-nine at the Safeway. I don’t even remember why I bought it, to tell you the truth, or when.”

  Hannah was apparently not the gracious hostess type, Stanley decided. Or could be she wasn’t altogether happy to see him. Conflicted, maybe, wanting Carl’s problems straightened out, and not overly glad to have a homosexual seeing to it. She wasn’t rude, exactly, but there was no enthusiasm for his company, either.

  She poured coffee for Libby, handed her the cup wordlessly.

  Stanley had the impression they didn’t share a lot of the affection you saw between some pairs of sisters. Probably, he thought, that too was the lesbian thing. That could create real sibling hostility, but even where it didn’t go that far, tolerance did not necessarily negate disapproval. And maybe that had something to do, too, with her coolness toward him.

  Although, in fact, now that he took a further moment to observe her, it was not hostility that he sensed in Hannah so much as an air of major resignation, of chronic discontentment.

  Maybe it wasn’t just the gay-lesbian thing she resented. Maybe it was life in general. He suspected she was one of those who didn’t feel alive without some grievance, something to be unhappy over. He’d known one or two like that. Sooner or later, everyone did. They weren’t easy people to be around, let alone to live with.

  A bell rang somewhere in the rear of the house. The two sisters exchanged glances, Hannah’s grim, Libby’s commiserating.

  “That’s Mother,” Hannah said. “Excuse me.” She disappeared from the room.

  “Mom heard our voices,” Libby said. “I guess I should have thought to keep them down. She hates being left out of anything. A dollar says Hannah will have to bring her out here to meet you.”

  42 Victor Banis

  Luckily Stanley didn’t take the bet. He stared out the window. Not much to see, really. The rear deck with a couple of plastic chairs; a short distance away, a metal shed, then another stretch of that rocky, grassless earth sloping down to the water and the little outboard tethered there.

  He took another sip of his wine, and Libby held her cup thoughtfully in two hands. The both of them had their heads cocked, listening. After a moment, they heard the unmistakable sound of wheels on hardwood flooring—which explained the lack of rugs, he realized—and a minute later, Hannah was back, pushing her mother before her in a wheelchair.

  “Stanley,” Penelope Hunter greeted him from the chair, her smile artificially wide, her eyes bright enough to hint at some powerful medications at work. “Are we glad to see you.”

  “It’s nice to be here,” he said, feeling a little awkward.

  Hannah’s barely welcoming manner had vanished altogether.

  She stood behind her mother’s chair in a humble pose that had not a trace of humility in it, her thin lips tightly compressed, her eyes hooded. Libby’s face had grown noncommittal.

  Mrs. Hunter appeared determined to offset their lack of enthusiasm however. “And I hear you’re a big time homicide detective,” she all but chirped.

  “Inspector. In San Francisco, we’re Homicide Inspectors.

  And not so big time, either. I worked on one homicide. I got lucky, more than anything.”

  She pooh-poohed that suggestion with a wave of a hand that looked much younger than her face. She was older, of course, than the few times he had seen her in the past, and admittedly he hadn’t paid any great attention to her then. She had been the mother of a school friend, was all.

  He thought now that she had probably been pretty, if only fleetingly. There were women, and men, who got better looking as they got older: Barbara Stanwyck in her Big Valley days, came to mind. Penelope Hunter’s, however, had been the kind of fragile prettiness that faded all too quickly. Hair that he remembered as yellow had turned to a dirty looking white and grown thin, and her face was deeply lined, not just at mouth DEADLY WRONG 43

  and eyes, but furrows running across her forehead and a turkey wattle below her chin.

  She was deeply tanned, though, and she did not look to him particularly disabled. Her legs, under a plain cotton nightgown, looked entirely capable of carrying her around the house without need of a wheelchair. Of course, appearances could be deceiving.

  “Anyway,” she said, the strained smile growing broader still in a determined show of bonhomie, “I am absolutely sure you will clear up this nonsense about Carl in no time. The very idea of Carl’s hurting anyone—there couldn’t be a gentler boy in the whole world. You remember Carl, don’t you?”

  “Just barely,” he said, and when her face sort of crinkled into disappointment, he added, “He was younger.”

  “Carl was only eight, Mother, when we moved away.”

  “Right,” Stanley said. “And when you’re older, a six or seven year difference in age doesn’t seem like anything, but when you’re fifteen or thereabouts it’s an unbridgeable chasm. At that age, you don’t pay a lot of attention to eight year old boys. And vice versa.”

  She recovered her enthusiastic confidence. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. Well, you’ll just love him…” She paused there for a split second, seeming to hear what she had just said, and probably remembering what she must know about Stanley’s personal life. “He’s such a likable young man, I know you two are going to hit if off just fine. You’ll see, mark my words, the minute you see him again, you’ll know he’s not a murderer.”

  There was something unconvincing about her confidence, Stanley thought. Her voice had a false ring to it. Did she really believe Carl was guilty, he wondered, despite her protests to the contrary? Or was she just one of those women for whom artifice is the norm, who couldn’t evoke sincerity even when they absolutely were?

  “It’s not murder, Mother,” Hannah said, the first she had spoken since they came into the kitchen. “It’s involuntary manslaughter. An accident, pretty much, is what that means.”

  44 Victor Banis

  Mrs. Hunter made that dismissive gesture again with her hand. “La de dah, that’s just as silly. And it’s not true. Carl says…”

  “I think,” Libby interrupted her, “probably Stanley needs to hear the details directly from Carl.” She picked up her car keys from the counter where she’d laid them.

  “That’s true, I’d rather hear them with an open mind,” he said, taking his cue from Libby. “And speaking of Carl…?” He finished his wine and set the empty glass on the counter.

  “Yes, let’s. Anyway, you must be tired,” Libby said. “And I need to get back to the shop.” She bent down to give her mother a quick peck on one cheek. “I’ll stop by later. Do you need anything from the store?” This last directed at Hannah.

  “No, we’re fine,” Hannah said, but her mother quickly amended, “You know, I have just had a sweet tooth something awful, all day long. I keep thinking about some delicious chocolate chip cookies. They do them very well down at Earhart’s bakery.”

  “Mother, your sugar…” Hannah started to say, but Mother was uninterested in the warning.

  “My sugar’s been reading just fine,” she said emphatically.

  “And I don’t think one or two cookies will hurt me, do you, dear?” This last directed at Libby.

  “I’ll stop on the way,” Libby said.

  Neither of the daughters offered to bake cookies, Stanley noted. Even with his limited culinary skills, he knew that was not such a great feat. At the very least, there were those packages of cookie dough at the markets, all you had to do was slice them and pop them in the oven. Apparently, family obligation covered duty, but it didn’t stretch to chocolate chip cookies. Not home baked ones, anyway.

  “Did they give you my cell phone number?” Mrs. Hunter asked.

  “I don’t think, Mother…” Hannah started to object, but her mother’s face took on a stubborn expression.

  “I want you to call me directly as soon as you find out anything,” she said to Stanley. “I want to be kept informed of everything. You see he gets the number, Libby. Have you got a DEADLY WRONG 45

  cell, Stanley?” He recited the number for her. “You write that down,” she told Hannah. “In case I need to get in touch.”

  Hannah looked resentful, but she wrote the number obediently on a sheet from the memo pad by the phone and handed it to her mother. Mrs. Hunter fairly snatched it out of her hand and tucked it into a pocket of her dress.

  “Just in case. By the way, Libby, have you seen my amethyst ring? It’s disappeared from my jewel box.”

  “Haven’t seen it. Hannah?” Hannah gave her shoulders a disinterested shrug. “I’m sure it’s here someplace, Mom. It’ll turn up.”

  “I hope so. It’s worth a fortune. Oh. Where’s Josephine?”

  she suddenly demanded.

  “I tossed her out on the deck,” Hannah said, looking for just the briefest of moments pleased with herself.

  “Well, you can just toss her right back inside. Go on, now.”

  Hannah seemed about to argue, but she went through to the front room. They heard a door slide on its tracks and a moment later an indignant Josephine bounded in and leapt directly onto Mrs. Hunter’s lap.

  “There’s my little snookums,” she crooned, welcoming a wet tongue with her own lips. “Was you scared, outside all by your little self, hmm? All those big bad animals out there, Heaven only knows what could happen to my little girl.”

  Seeing the glance Hannah threw the dog, Stanley was not altogether sure Josephine was any safer inside.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Not until he was outside did Stanley realize how uncomfortable he had felt inside. Hannah’s austere appearance and manner—she lacked only a black robe and a silver cross to have portrayed an inmate of some old and bleak Spanish convent—and Mrs. Hunter’s artificial cheeriness alike had unnerved him in some way he couldn’t quite fathom. Neither’s attitude had quite matched their words of welcome, but why should either of them resent his being here?

  Not, he thought, a question he ought to pose to Libby. To say that he felt suddenly unwelcome could only make her feel guilty for asking him to come in the first place. And maybe he had only imagined things. He was tired, and so far this mountain escape that had seemed so promising when it had been offered was appearing less and less agreeable. He focused instead on the question that had occurred to him in the kitchen.

  “Are chocolate chip cookies really a good idea? I should think, if she’s diabetic—”

  “Oh, that’s an exaggeration, really, her glucose levels are barely elevated. Mother likes to dramatize. Come on, I’ll lead you over to my place, and you can meet Carl.”

  “Thanks, but I think the first thing I’d better do is stop by the local police station and let them know I’m in town. Just in case I need back up, or anything. Plus I don’t want them arresting me for interfering in a police investigation.”

  “Good idea. You want me to come with you?”

  “No, I think I can handle it.” He didn’t want to explain that he half expected them to laugh him out of the station. San Francisco cops didn’t take him seriously. He couldn’t even imagine the reception he was going to get from a bunch of mountain cops. He thought he’d rather it happen without any witnesses to his anticipated humiliation. “So, where’s the station? And where’s your cabin? And keep in mind, I’m one of those people who gets lost easily.”

  48 Victor Banis

  “Not in Bear Mountain. There’s just the main drag, it follows along the lake, everything branches off of that. I’ll lead you back to my shop. The police station is three blocks past it.

  When you’re done there, you head back the opposite direction, second traffic light, hang a right, two blocks, go left. It’s the only cabin for miles painted bright yellow, and there’s a bear in the front yard.” She added with a grin when he looked startled,

  “A carved wooden one, one of my masterpieces that no one wanted to buy, so I took it home for a pet. I’ll call Carl to tell him you’re on your way.”

  “Which raises the question, will he be staying there? With me?”

  She frowned. “Not if you don’t want him to. He could go over to Hannah’s. But it’s a little crowded there. Anyway, you’ll each have your own bedroom at my place, and there’s two bathrooms, so he won’t really be in your way. Carl’s pretty good at staying out of the way. Too good, maybe. He seems to disappear into the woodwork sometimes.”

  She was half in, half out of her car, when Stanley thought to say, “Oh, your mother’s cell phone number?”

  She found a scrap of paper in the glove box of her van and wrote the number down, handing it to him. “Not that you really need to bother, you know. It’s just extra nuisance for you.

  Whatever Hannah or I hear, believe me, she’ll hear it too. You couldn’t keep anything from her if you tried.”