In due course, the door was opened by a white woman of indeterminant age in a gray cotton uniform. She was of medium height, thick through the middle, her shoulders and breasts slumping toward a waist that had expanded to accommodate the gradual accumulation of weight. I pegged her in her early forties, but I couldn’t be sure.
“Yes?” Her eyebrows needed plucking and her blond hair showed dark roots mixed with gray. This was a woman who apparently whacked at her own hair with some kind of dull instrument, a not unfamiliar concept. Her bangs had been cut slightly too short, curling across her forehead unbecomingly. Maybe forty dollars for a haircut wasn’t too much to pay.
I handed her my business card. “Are you Myrna?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “I believe Donovan called to say I’d be stopping by this afternoon. Is Bennet at home?”
Her expression didn’t change, but she seemed to know what I was talking about. She was plain, her nose maybe half a size too big for her face. Her lips were antiqued with the remnants of dark lipstick, probably eaten off at lunch or imprinted on the edge of her coffee cup. Now that I’d become an aficionado of drugstore cosmetics, I was acting like an expert. What a laugh, I thought.
“He just got in. He said to put you in the library if you arrived before he came down. Would you like to follow me?”
I said, “Sure.” I loved the idea of being “put” in the library, like a potted plant.
I followed her across the foyer, toward a room on the right. I took in my surroundings surreptitiously, trying not to look like a mouth breather in the process. In the homes of the rich, it doesn’t do to gape. The floor was dark parquet, a complicated herringbone pattern with the polished wooden chevrons blending together seamlessly. The entrance hall was two stories high, but little if any light filtered down from above. Tapestries were hung along the walls at intervals, faded depictions of women with high waists and faces shaped like hard-boiled eggs. Gents in cloaks rode on horseback, trailed by hunting dogs on chains. Behind them, a merry band of woodcutters toted a dead stag that had spears sticking out of its torso like Saint Sebastian. I could tell right away that theirs was a world devoid of animal-rights activists.
The library had the look of a private men’s club, or what I imagine such a place would look like if women were allowed in. Several large red Oriental carpets had been laid side by side to form a continuous floor covering. One wall was paneled in dark walnut and there were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on the other three. The windows were tall and narrow, diamonds of leaded glass admitting more chill air than afternoon light. There were three groupings of ripped red-leather club chairs and an enormous gray stone fireplace with a gas starter, its inner hearth blackened by countless fires. The room smelled of charred oak and book mold and suggested the kind of dampness associated with poorly laid foundations. For a family that had amassed a fortune in the construction business, they really ought to think about pumping money into the place. Failing major home improvements, a quick trip to Pier I would have done wonders.
For once, left to my own devices, I didn’t bother to snoop. Guy Malek had been gone for eighteen years. I wasn’t going to find a copy of his outbound bus schedule or a drawer filled with personal diaries he’d kept as a lad. I heard someone walking on the second floor, the ceiling creaking as the steps passed from one side to the other of the room above. I circled the library, glancing out of every window I passed. The room was a good thirty feet long. At the far end, a solarium looked out on the rear lawn, a large expanse of dormant grass with a murky-looking koi pond in the center. The surface of the water was choked with lily pads.
I moved back toward the door and heard someone come down the stairs and traverse the hall. The door opened and Bennet Malek came in. He was four years younger than Donovan with the same fair hair. Where Donovan’s was glossy, Bennet’s was coarse, and he kept it cut short to discourage a visible tendency to curl. He’d apparently given up his battle to stay clean shaven and a blond beard and mustache now defined the lower portion of his face. He was heavyset, looking beefy across the shoulders and thick through the chest. He wore jeans and a navy sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up along forearms densely matted with hair. Tasha had tagged him as a man who invested and lost sums of money on various faulty commercial ventures. I wondered how I might have responded to him if I hadn’t been told in advance of his poor business sense. As it was, I found myself disregarding the hearty confidence he was at pains to project. Belatedly, I noticed that he carried the last half inch of a drink in his right hand, gin or vodka over ice with a twist. He set the drink on the end table closest to him.
He held out his hand and shook mine with unnecessary strength. We weren’t about to arm wrestle so what was the point? His fingertips were icy and faintly moist to the touch. “Bennet Malek, Miss Millhone. Nice to meet you. Don said you’d be coming. Can I offer you a drink?” He had a big booming voice and made solid eye contact. Very manly, I thought.
“Thanks, but I’m fine. I don’t want to take any more time than I have to. I know you’re busy.”
“Fair enough. Why don’t you have a seat?” he said. His attentiveness seemed feigned, a salesman’s maneuver for putting the customer at ease. I’d been in this man’s company thirty seconds or less and I’d already developed an aversion to him.
I perched on the edge of a club chair with a wide, sunken seat. The leather surface was slippery and I had to fight a tendency to skid backward into the depths. As a child, I used to polish the trailer park sliding board to lightning-fast speeds by vigorous rubbings with sheets of Cut-Rite waxed paper. The glossy leather cushion had the same slick feel to it. To avoid losing traction, I had to keep my weight pitched forward, feet together and flat on the floor.
Bennet settled into the chair to my left with a series of creakings. “I understand you’re a private investigator,” he said.
“That’s right. I’ve been licensed for ten years. I was a police officer before that. What about you? What sort of work do you do?”
“I’m into venture capital. I look for promising little companies with cash-flow problems.”
And drain them dry, no doubt. “Sounds like fun,” I remarked.
“It’s gratifying. Let’s put. it that way.” His voice had dropped into a confidential tone. “I take it you met with Don?”
“That’s right. I talked to him earlier this afternoon.”
He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Did he mention the missing will?”
“Tasha told me about that when she was briefing me at lunch,” I said. Vaguely, I wondered why he was raising the subject. The existence of a second will was really not my concern. “I guess your brother lucked out,” I said.
He snorted. “I’ll tell you what bugs me. I remember when Dad signed the second will. I can picture the day just as clear as I’m sitting here. Dad’s attorney and two witnesses came out to the house.”
“Well, that’s interesting. Do you remember who they were?”
“The witnesses? Two women. I remember that much. I assumed they worked for the attorney, but I may have made that up. They weren’t personal friends of Dad’s as far as I know. The four of them came in here and emerged maybe half an hour later.”
“Have you told Tasha about this?”
“I mentioned I was here the day the second will was signed. I can’t remember now if I mentioned witnesses or not.”
“I’d tell her, if I were you. She may find a way to determine who they were. From what I’ve heard, no one disputes the fact that a second will was drawn up, but was it signed in your presence? Were you apprised of the provisions?”
“Well, I wasn’t in the room with him if that’s what you’re getting at. Dad referred to it later, but he never spelled it out. The question is, what happened to it?”
I shrugged. “Your father could have changed his mind. He could have torn it up and tossed it out.”
Bennet stirred restlessly. “So everyone says, though I’m not convinced. It’s an interesting issue, if you think about it. I mean, look at the facts. The will comes up missing and the black sheep of the family makes out like a bandit. Dad signed it in March and Guy left within days.”