to get out of sight quickly.
He had no friends with whom they could take refuge. After Paula died, he had
withdrawn from his few friends, and he hadn’t maintained relationships with any
of the real-estate agents who had once worked for him. Nora had no friends,
either, thanks to Violet Devon.
The houses they passed, most with warm lights in the windows, seemed to mock
them with unattainable sanctuary.
8
Garrison Dilworth lived on the border between Santa Barbara and Montecito, on a
lushly landscaped half acre, in a stately Tudor home that did not mesh well with
the California flora but which perfectly complemented the attorney. When he
answered the door, he was wearing black loafers, gray slacks, a navy-blue sports
jacket, a white knit shirt, and half-lens tortoiseshell reading glasses over
which he peered at them in surprise but, fortunately, not with displeasure.
“Well, hello there, newlyweds!”
“Are you alone?” Travis asked as he and Nora and Einstein stepped into a large
foyer floored with marble.
“Alone? Yes.”
On the way over, Nora had told Travis that the attorney’s wife had passed away
three years ago and that he was now looked after by a housekeeper named Gladys
Murphy.
“Mrs. Murphy?” Travis asked.
“She’s gone home for the day,” the attorney said, closing the door behind them.
“You look distraught. What on earth’s wrong?”
“We need help,” Nora said.
“But,” Travis warned, “anyone who helps us may be putting himself in jeopardy
with the law.”
Garrison raised his eyebrows. “What have you done? Judging by the solemn look of
you—I’d say you’ve kidnapped the president.”
“We’ve done nothing wrong,” Nora assured him.
“Yes, we have,” Travis disagreed. “And we’re still doing it—we’re harboring the
dog.”
Puzzled, Garrison frowned down at the retriever.
Einstein whined, looking suitably miserable and lovable.
“And there’s a dead man in my house,” Travis said.
Garrison’s gaze shifted from the dog to Travis. “Dead man?”
“Travis didn’t kill him,” Nora said.
Garrison looked at Einstein again.
“Neither did the dog,” Travis said. “But I’ll be wanted as a material witness,
something like that, sure as hell.”
“Mmmmm,” Garrison said, “why don’t we go into my study and get this straightened
out?”
He led them through an enormous and only half-lit living room, along a short
hallway, into a den with rich teak paneling and a copper ceiling. The maroon
leather armchairs and couch looked expensive and comfortable. The polished teak
desk was massive, and a detailed model of a five-masted schooner, all sails
rigged, stood on one corner. Nautical items—a ship’s wheel, a brass sextant, a
carved bullock’s horn filled with tallow that held what appeared to be
sail-making needles, six types of ship lanterns, a helmsman’s bell, and sea
charts—were used as decoration. Travis saw photographs of a man and woman on
various sailboats, and the man was Garrison.
An open book and a half-finished glass of Scotch were on a small table beside
one of the armchairs. Evidently, the attorney had been relaxing here when they
had rung the doorbell. Now, he offered them a drink, and they both said they
would have whatever he was having.
Leaving the couch for Travis and Nora, Einstein took the second armchair. He sat
in it, rather than curling up, as if prepared to participate in the discussion
to come.
At a corner wet bar, Garrison poured Chivas Regal on the rocks in two glasses.
Although Nora was unaccustomed to whiskey, she startled Travis by downing her
drink in two long swallows and asking for another. He decided that she had the
right idea, so he followed suit and took his empty glass back to the bar while
Garrison was refilling Nora’s.
“I’d like to tell you everything and have your help,” Travis said, “but you
really must understand you could be putting yourself on the wrong side of the
law.”
Recapping the Chivas, Garrison said, “You’re talking as a layman now. As an
attorney, I assure you the law isn’t a line engraved in marble, immovable and
unchangeable through the centuries. Rather . . . the law is like a string, fixed
at both ends but with a great deal of play in it—very loose, the line of the