Sweet Paradise Gene Desrochers (classic novels TXT) 📖

way would drive any heir to at least consider homicide. It’s funny how fast one-hundred million shrinks once you divide it up amongst four or five people and pay the taxes, outstanding debts, etc.

It didn’t seem like Francine accepted counsel from her children. What had Herbie said? She was paranoid. Hillary needed the money since she had no discernable desire or ability to earn a living. Harold was fun, but eccentric. Who knew what was going on in that surf-obsessed, reefer-driven mind. Besides, he certainly knew how to wield an arrow.

I wanted it to be Herbie. The guy was an arrogant weasel who stunk of entitlement. He would never pass the smell test. In the parking lot below a mangy dog took a leak on one of Pickering’s Armor-All’ed tires, then trotted jauntily away. The yellow liquid beaded and rolled off the shiny, black rubber, making a steaming puddle on the pavement. They were all archers in the Bacon family, although Junior insisted his dad was not that great, I suspected “not that great” in their world only meant he wasn’t Olympic quality.

Walter shot an arrow into my musings. “How well do you know your client?”

“Junior? I’ve known him since, well, since about eight minutes before Kendal bought it,” I said in a shaky voice.

Chapter 12

Junior and Leber sat across from each other at the large dining room table at the Bacon residence. A light breeze carried the scent of hibiscus from the estate’s expansive garden beyond the soccer field and tennis court.

“Impressive place you got here,” Leber said as Wilma placed a glass of water in front of him. “This glass of water looks more expensive than my car.” Wilma shuffled back to the kitchen. He sipped the water. On his extended pinky finger, he wore a thick gold ring encrusted with red jewels. “What’s the story?”

“It’s my grandma’s house,” Junior muttered.

“Mmmm. Even the water tastes better up here.”

Junior shifted. The wooden seat felt harder than usual this morning. He was supposed to hold his tongue, waiting for his dad to get back. Leber had arrived, fifteen minutes early for their appointment, so Junior had texted his dad, who replied in all caps: “REMAIN SILENT UNTIL I GET THERE.”

Junior hadn’t replied. Although only eighteen, Junior had studied the human animal. He’d read a lot of books. He liked to watch people’s behavior. It reminded him of going to the zoo, except the animals were all around in their natural habitat, every day of his life. Some of them needed cages, but most left you alone if you faded into the background. He was pretty sure his father qualified as a narcissist. His aunt’s condition was less clear. He guessed all the categories were like breeds of dog, some people were pure, but most were mutts.

This cop had some kind of hero complex, or he enjoyed power. You could apply that analysis to almost every cop.

“What’s your story?” Junior asked.

Leber was surprised by the question. People didn’t ask cops questions like this. They were too uncomfortable. Afraid to do anything wrong lest they incur his closer inspection. Junior had gone there. Willingly. Leber could use that.

“I started out as a beat cop, then worked my way up to detective. Took some criminology courses at the local university. My mother enjoys calling me Poe after Edgar Allen, who she says wrote the first and best detective story. Maybe it was her influence.”

Junior fell into his stillness, examining Leber to the point where the seasoned cop felt slightly uncomfortable. The kid had wells for eyes. A little creepy.

“You have solid alibis,” said Leber.

“I do.”

“So why not talk to me?”

Junior slid his phone across and showed Leber his father’s message.

“I see,” Leber muttered. “But don’t you want to help Boise and me solve this thing?”

Leber met Junior’s gaze. The kid didn’t look away, but didn’t speak either. Wow, another very rare occurrence. Only crazy people stared right back when he was there to question them about a murder. Sometimes mothers made eye contact when pleading for their guilty sons. Junior Bacon wasn’t a mother. Was this kid just plain crazy?

The front door banged open. Herbie Bacon stormed in, Aunt Hillary on his heels. That left Uncle Harold as the only missing piece for the business of data gathering today. This case would be a marathon. He didn’t have any substantial evidence implicating any of them. He needed cooperation from Francine’s family, otherwise this investigation would devolve into legal posturing for every bit of information. He didn’t need that complication. Keep it friendly.

“You came here early on purpose, you weasel, looking to take advantage of an impressionable young man who is distraught over the loss of his grandmother.”

Leber felt like a garter snake being attacked by a mongoose. He remained seated, his hands resting lightly on the table in front of him. This man wanted to be the alpha in this family, but he wasn’t. He was a sniveling bully who lived in this little world because outside of it, his weakness would be exposed. Men like this did cowardly things. Killing an old woman and a reporter from long-distance qualified.

“Dad.”

“Not now, the grown-ups are talking,” Herbie barked.

“Dad.”

“Now, this conversation and interview are over. Wilma!” The housekeeper did not respond or appear. “Hillary, go find her!” His voice squeaked as he said the last word.

Hillary stared at her brother, then plopped into the sofa in her favorite pose and yelled. Her voice projected much more than Herbie’s, but it also grated more, like one of the women from a 1930’s gangster film who all sounded like uneducated New Yorkers. Her speaking voice was more refined, more proper.

“Wilma! Come now, Wilma! Herbie needs you for something. Be a dear and bring a bottle when you come.”

Wilma appeared moments later, a Chardonnay bottle in one hand and an empty wine glass in the other. She handed both to Hillary.

“This isn’t cold enough.”

“Then chill it yourself. You know where the chill machine