The parking lot emptied slowly. The crowd dispersed as though from a movie theater, people pausing to chat while departing vehicles inched by. I returned to my car and joined the thinning stream. The overcast had lightened and a pale hint of sun seemed to filter through the clouds.
The beach house was only two miles from the church on surface roads. I must have been one of the last to arrive because the gravel berm on Paloma Lane was completely lined with expensive cars. I grabbed the first spot I saw, locked my car, and walked the rest of the way to the house. I sensed the crotch of my pantyhose had slipped to midthigh. I hoisted the suckers back into place by giving a little jump. For ten cents, I'd peel 'em off and toss 'em in a bush.
As I turned into Crystal's driveway, I saw the same vintage auto I'd seen at Pacific Meadows. Cautiously, I paused and scrutinized the area, noting that I was protected from view. The entire rear facade of Crystal's beach house was windowless and the roadway behind me was momentarily empty. I circled the vehicle, checking the manufacturer's emblem affixed to the right front fender. A Kaiser Manhattan. Never heard of it. All four doors were locked and a quick look into the front and backseats revealed nothing of interest.
The front door had been left ajar and the sounds spilling out were not unlike an ordinary cocktail party. Death, by its nature, reshapes the connection between family members and friends. Survivors tend to gather, using food and drink as a balm to counteract the loss. There is usually laughter. I'm not quite sure why, but I suspect it's an integral part of the healing process, the mourner's talisman.
There were probably sixty people present, most of whom I'd seen at the church. The French doors stood open to the deck and I could hear the constant shushing of the surf beyond. A gentleman in a cropped white jacket walked by with a tray, pausing to offer me a glass of champagne. I thanked him and took one. I found a place near the stairs and sipped champagne while I searched for the man with the mustache and thick silver hair.
Jacob Trigg came up behind me, pausing as I had at the edge of the crowd. Many of the mourners were already engaged in animated conversations and the thought of breaking into any given threesome was daunting. Trigg said, "You know these people?"
"No, do you?"
"A few. I understand you were the one who found Dow."
"I did and I'm sorry he died. I was hoping he'd gone off to South America."
"Me, too." Trigg's smile was bleak.
"Did Dow ever mention money missing from his savings account?"
"I know he was aware of it. The bank manager became concerned and sent him a copy of the statement with a query attached. Dow thanked him, said he knew what it was and he'd take care of it. In truth, it was the first he'd heard. Initially, he figured it had to be Crystal since the statements were being routed to her P.O. box."
"Did he ask her?"
"Not about the money, but about the post-office box. She told him she'd dumped it about a year ago. He didn't want to press the issue until he'd looked into it. It almost had to be someone in the house because who else would have access to the bank card and the pin number for that account?"
"Who'd he suspect?"
"Crystal or Leila, though it could have been Rand. He'd obviously narrowed it down, but he wouldn't say a word until he knew for sure. He and Crystal clashed over Leila so many times, she'd threatened to walk out. If he'd had a problem with Leila, he'd have handled it himself. Of course, when it came to Rand, Crystal was just as fierce. Why take that on? There'd have been hell to pay there, too."
"How so?"
"He's the only one she trusted with Griff. Without Rand, where's her freedom? Dow was in a bind any which way it went."
"Why not close the account?"
"I'm sure he did."
"Did he ever figure out who it was?"
"If so, he never told me."
"Too bad. With his passport missing, the cops figured he might have left of his own accord. I wonder why Crystal didn't fill them in."
"Maybe she didn't know. He might have decided pursuing it wasn't worth the risk."
"He'd let someone walk off with thirty thousand bucks?"
"Dad?"
Both of us turned. A woman with a thick blond braid halfway down her back stood behind us. She was in her forties, no makeup, in a long cotton sweater, a peasant skirt, and sandals. She looked like the sort who never shaved her legs, but I didn't want to check. She was too smart to wear pantyhose, so I gave her points for that. Mine were sinking again. Any moment, they'd slip down as far as my knees and I'd have to start hobbling, taking little mincing steps wherever I went.