Читать книгу Serpent’s Tooth - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 17

The house was small, disappointingly so. Martinez hadn’t been expecting anything ritzy, but at least “Cattle Foreman Kirk Brown” should have been living in something western. A ranch house set on acres replete with tumbleweeds and cacti. Maybe a couple of horse stables. Instead, Walter Skinner, the man, had lived out his last years in a three-bedroom one-story bungalow in an anonymous residential block in the heart of the Valley. A simple house plopped onto a patch of recently fertilized lawn. A lifetime of nostalgia washed away by the stench of manure.

Badge in hand, Martinez trod up a red-painted cement walkway, hopped the two steps up to the porch. Knocked on the door, and when no one answered, he knocked again. This time he heard someone telling him just a minute. An elderly voice—not feeble, just old. A minute later, she opened the door a crack. Just enough room for Martinez to show her his ID. Then the door opened all the way.

She must have been under five feet, hunched over, hands resting on a cane. Her face was as round as the moon, lined but not overly wrinkled. Her cheeks had a dash of blush, her lips were painted pink. Her eyes were clear blue; her hair, thick and silver, was tied neatly into a bun. She wore a red turtleneck top over black pants, mules on her feet. Her hands were spotted, the fingers bony and bent. Though she had lived almost eight decades, she still struck a nice pose—all seventy-seven years and about eighty pounds of her.

One palm remained on the knob of her cane, the other extended itself to Martinez. “Adelaide Skinner. Pleased to meet you, Detective.”

Martinez took the birdlike hand. “Likewise. Thank you for letting me in.”

“I was afraid you’d arrest me if I didn’t.” A brief smile. “Come in, come in before you catch a chill.”

Martinez stepped inside. Adelaide closed the door. “Is this a condolence call from the police? Someone named Strapp already did that.”

“My captain.”

“A nice man. Sharp. A good politician.”

Martinez went inside the house. “Actually, I came to talk to you, Mrs. Skinner.”

“Me?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“No, I don’t mind.”

She stood for a moment, caught her breath. “Fine. We’ll talk. First let me give you a tour. Which shouldn’t take very long. Because it’s a small house. My idea, not his. If it had been up to Walter, we would have been living on a grand-scale Ponderosa.”

Martinez smiled to himself. Her admission made him feel better.

“Not that Walter was the ranch type.” She walked in tiny steps, directing him toward the left. “But when you’re Kirk Brown you have an image to keep up.”

She stopped, regarded Martinez.

“Or maybe you’re too young to remember—”

“Oh no, ma’am. I grew up on High Mountain.”

She smiled. “Anyway, this … was Walter’s living room. It shows his personality, I think.”

Martinez looked around, his heart beating like a little boy’s. The personification of his western hero, the room’s couches and chairs all done in brown suede and horn. The tables were fashioned from old driftwood. A handmade Navajo rug sat on a floor of knotty pine. A tremendous stone fireplace. And the walls. Loaded with pictures of Skinner as Cattle Foreman Kirk Brown, dressed in western gear, posing with past cowboy luminaries. The daytime ropers—Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, the Lone Ranger, Wild Bill Hickock, and Sky King. Then there were pictures of Skinner and the nighttime biggies, on the set of Wagon Train, Death Valley Days, and Paladin. Kirk with Bat Masterson and Sugarfoot and Mr. Favor. And Gunsmoke. Lots of pictures of Skinner on that set. With Matt Dillon and Chester and with the beautiful and alluring Miss Kitty. As a boy, Martinez dreamed of Kitty’s boobs, dreamed about them for many years. Then the series got old and so did Amanda Blake …

The snapshots weren’t the only things on the walls. Sharing the space was a display of stuffed and mounted sports fish—a huge mother salmon, barracudas baring teeth, swordfish and marlins flashing weapons on their snouts. The bookshelves had been turned into showcases for more snapshots, also for Skinner’s fishing awards and trophies. Adelaide saw Martinez eyeing the shiny gold cups. She picked one up, hefted it in her hand.