Swan Peak by James Lee Burke Page B

by gravel pathways and surrounded by a gray stone wall that was stippled with lichen in the shade. The flower beds were planted with pansies, English roses that were as big as grapefruit, forget-me-nots, violets, clematis vine, and bottlebrush trees. I wondered if the eclectic nature of the ornamentals in the garden said something about the undefined and perhaps deceptive nature of the Wellstones and their ability to acquire an entire culture as easily as writing a check.
    “Would you like a drink?” Jamie Sue said, indicating a redwood table where a bottle of vodka sat in an ice bucket.
    “ I would,” Clete said.
    “Is your husband home, Ms. Wellstone?” I asked.
    “He’s taking a nap. This is about the people who were at the saloon on the lake before they were killed?” she said.
    “Yeah, the bartender said a guy who was maybe a Latino or part Indian was paying undue attention to either you or the homicide victims,” I said.
    “I don’t remember that, really. I didn’t see anything unusual there that day,” she said.
    The sky was still sealed by rain clouds, and it was cold sitting at the table. The garden itself seemed like an intrinsically cold place, dotted with stone benches and tarnished bronze sundials, shut off from the vistas surrounding the ranch. Clete poured himself a full glass of vodka and dropped three olives in it. “Bombs away,” he said, and tanked it down.
    “Would you like a beer or a Scotch, Mr. Robicheaux?” Jamie Sue Wellstone asked.
    “No,” I said. “It’s odd you have no memory of a Mexican or Indian watching you at the saloon, because the bartender made a point about his being there.”
    “Maybe an Indian or Mexican was there. It’s just not the way I remember it. I’m not saying the bartender is wrong,” she said.
    Know what the false close is in the ethos of a door-to-door salesman? The salesman backs off, concedes that the customer’s reluctance is understandable, and seemingly gives up. It’s a hot day. The salesman is tired and asks for a glass of water. A moment later, he’s the customer’s friend, a victim himself, a family man with a wife and kids depending on him. The customer gets sandbagged without ever knowing what hit him.
    “I see,” I said, nodding, studying my notebook. “Did the California couple indicate they’d had trouble with anyone? You think maybe they were mixed up with criminals?”
    “The woman sounded like she’d lived a checkered life,” Jamie Sue said.
    “As a prostitute?” I said.
    “I can’t say that with authority.”
    “On an unrelated subject, why would y’all hire a man like Lyle Hobbs to work security for you?” I said.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Hobbs has served time for child molestation. He also worked for a Mafia pimp by the name of Sally Dio,” I said.
    “My husband and brother-in-law try to help ex-felons. They also believe in forgiveness. You don’t believe in forgiveness, Mr. Robicheaux?”
    “I think the best place for child molesters is the graveyard. But I’m not a theologian,” I said.
    She took a drink from her vodka and let her eyes rest on mine. She was pretty; her voice and accent were lovely. It would have been easier to dismiss her as deceptive and cunning, even villainous. But I had the feeling she was much more complex than that and would not fit easily into a categorical envelope.
    “I saw you once,” Clete said to her out of nowhere.
    “Oh?”
    “In a joint in Uvalde, Texas. A big live-oak tree grew up through the floor. I was chasing down a bail skip over there. You sang ‘I Forgot More Than You’ll Ever Know.’ You reminded me of Skeeter Davis.”
    “I knew Skeeter. She influenced me a lot.”
    His green eyes lingered on hers. The moment was one that made me think of a red light flashing at a train crossing. “You ought to stay clear of Lyle Hobbs. Also that racist from Mississippi who works with him,” he said.
    “I wish I could oblige, but I don’t decide who works here,”