Halfway to the valley, he stopped at a greasy spoon, tossed back a Coke and a fried egg sandwich, and invested a couple of nickels in the phone booth out front.
Twenty minutes later, McDeere pulled up to the address Allyson had given him. Pretty swanky. It was one of those giant mansions that would have looked more at home in the English countryside. Only the acres of grapes that stretched behind the estate distinguished it from your everyday run-of-the-mill castle. McDeere hoped he didn't have to go through the entire house to find the keys. It could take weeks.
He walked up to the door and pushed the doorbell. The door was opened by a man whose face looked like it could chew nails and spit out rust. It was a face that McDeere knew.
“Gurney Malone? When did you get out of the joint?”
“'Bout a year ago. Look, Mr. McDeere, I'm walking the straight-and-narrow now. I promise you. The best thing that ever happened to me is you putting me away. It changed my life.”
Malone had been behind a series of cat burglaries a few years back. He would only hit houses that had cats and would take them along with any valuables he could find. The fixation got him five to eight in Alcatraz.
“Okay, Malone. I believe in second chances. But I would be very disappointed if you were lying to me.”
“Nah, don't lie anymore. Takes too much work keeping everything straight. Truth is easier.”
I wish that were true, McDeere thought. Sometimes he found the truth anything but easy.
Malone led McDeere into the house. He immediately spied the empty wall hook for the car keys. It was in the shape of a turkey vulture. The first thing you would glance at as you walked through the door. It would be hard to forget to hang your keys there.
The decor was early Audubon. Birds everywhere. Stuffed birds, pictures of birds, statues of birds. The only thing missing were the live ones. McDeere looked at Malone, who shrugged.
“The guy likes birds.”
Malone motioned to a room that McDeere surmised was the library. Leather-bound books lined the floor-to-ceiling shelves.
“Mrs. O'Hara will be with you in a minute. You here about the keys?” Malone asked.
“Yeah. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Free country.”
“What's the deal with Mrs. O'Hara? Good to work for? As spoiled as she seems?”
“Don't know her that well, really. Her father was the one man who'd hire me when no one was willing to give an ex-con a chance. He's a good egg. She's only been at the house the last couple of weeks. Been in Europe off and on the last ten years.” He glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “Rumor is she got knocked up by one of those Riviera playboys and stayed there to hide the scandal from Napa society. I think she only came back to get in the old man's good graces again.” He straightened up. “Hey, you know the old man's going to be away for a couple of months with some bird people he knows. He told me they were chasing a blue-throated macaw in Argentina. The rich, huh? They sure are different from us.”
“No, they just dress better.”
“Anyway, Mrs. O'Hara shows up with the kid, tells us she's here to look after things till Daddy gets back.”
“Any way I can talk to Daddy?”
“The old guy's incommunicado.”
“No phones in South America?”
“No. He's in the village of Communicado. Somewhere in Argentina.”
“Do you know anything about these keys?”
“Only that they're not here. We turned the place upside down. Well,
I
turned it upside down, but no go. The car hasn't been moved since, so it's not like someone wanted to steal it. It's a mystery.”
“So if the car is still here, chances are the keys are too. Say, Malone, any cats in the house?”
Malone held up his hands in mock surrender. “No way, boss. Made sure when I applied for the job. Kicked the habit of stealing cats. Been four years pussy free.”
“Yeah,” said McDeere, “prison'll do that.”
Malone glared, then left. McDeere looked around the library. There were a lot of books about birds. A few murder mysteries, a couple of first-edition classics, and a small section on botany. McDeere suddenly wished he had an obsession.
“Mr. McDeere.” Allyson entered the library with a small boy following closely behind. “This is my son, Ashley.”
McDeere bent down to shake the youngster's hand. “How's it going, Champ?”
Ashley smiled shyly and hid behind his mother's skirts.
“Ashley dear, why don't you go to the playroom while Mother tends to business.” She kissed him on the top of the forehead and sent him on his way. She turned to McDeere.
“He's lovely, isn't he?”
“Seems like a nice kid. Kinda ugly, but nice.”
“What?”
“Well, you must have noticed. Nothing wrong with being ugly. Builds character.”
“Your candor is refreshing. I wish there was a strong man around to influence him. He's very nervous and shy.”
“And ugly. Really ugly. No Mr. O'Hara around?”
“No. He was shot in Mexico over a Twinkie dispute.”
“Sorry to hear that. There's been a lot of snack-related killings down there recently. Too bad. Mrs. O'Hara, what do you say we get started?”
“Straight to the point. You don't know a lot about women, do you? We like a bit of a lead-up to the main event.”
“True, what I know about women wouldn't fill a gnat's navel. I do know that the main event is where all the action is.”
She smiled. “The main event it is, then.”
McDeere decided the best course of action was to go over the last time she had the keys. They started at the front door, where they were joined by Gurney.
“So. You parked the car, opened the front door. Why didn't you hang the keys on the hook?”
“Gurney had a question for me about my father's office. I got distracted.”
“Your father's office?”
“Yes,” confirmed Gurney. “Before Mr. O'Hara left for Argentina to search for the blue-throated macaw, he left his office in a horrible state. I wondered if I should clean it up or just leave it.”
“Huh.” McDeere rubbed his chin. “Why don't we head there?”
They climbed the curved staircase to the second floor, stopping in front of an ornately carved door. They stepped inside. Like the rest of the house, the room was filled with stuffed birds and marble statues of birds perched on pedestals. Papers lay strewn upon every surface.
“Looks like someone was looking for something,” said McDeere suspiciously.
“No,” said Allyson. “Daddy is just incredibly messy. Most brilliant men are.”
McDeere noticed a couple of bottles of wine sitting in the corner. He wandered over and picked one up. The label was a picture of the winery, with a striking font that proclaimed “Faren Heights Bin 451.”
“Never heard of this, and I'm a fan of your dad's work. Is it merlot, pinot, cab? Odd that the label wouldn't say.”
“Don't know much about this side of the business,” said Allyson. “Daddy was always trying new thingsâ¦trying to keep the winery at the top of its game.”
“Between that and the bird thing, doesn't sound like he had a lot of family time.”
“Daddy was who he was.”
“Just like Popeye, huh?” Burn smiled.
Just then Allyson's son entered. “Honey,” said Allyson, “why aren't you in the playroom?”
Ashley shrugged, then clung to his mother.
Weird kid, thought McDeere. And jeepers was he ugly.
Looked like a collapsed lung. McDeere looked around the room and then went over to the large mahogany desk. Upon it was a statue that looked strangely familiar. He'd seen it in a photo. It was an exact replica of the car keys falcon.
“That's odd,” said McDeere.
“What?” asked Gurney a little too quickly.
McDeere picked up a small ceramic rhino paperweight.
“This doesn't really fit in with the theme of the room. Your father, Mrs. O'Hara, has very peculiar tastes, but there is a pattern.
This
doesn't fit the pattern.”
The horn of the rhino had odd grooves on it. McDeere was suddenly slapped with an idea. He picked up the statue of the falcon and turned it around. On the back of the feathered neck was a small opening. The horn of the rhino fit it perfectly. McDeere turned the rhino horn, and the head of the falcon sprung open. The statue was hollow, and inside, at the bottom, rested a ring of car keys. Attached was the small replica of a falcon.
“Must have taken a lot of work to misplace your keys in here,” said McDeere slowly.
“Took more work to find 'em,” said Gurney bitterly.
McDeere spun around. His eyes immediately took in the three guns trained on his head, heart, and groin. The fried egg curdled in his belly.
Ashley, speaking in a voice that was whiskey soaked and high pitched at the same time, chortled, “Thanks for the help, flatfoot.”
“A flatfoot is a cop. I'm a shamus.”
“Whatever.”
“So, you're not an ugly kid after all. You're a dwarf.”
“Midget.”
“Whatever. And you look like your face got caught in a meat grinder.”
Allyson stepped forward. “Sorry it had to be like this, Burn.” Her lower lip quivered as though she really meant it. She's good, McDeere thought. Even she believes her lies.
“Throw the keys over,” ordered Gurney.
“Gurney, I have to say this is very disappointing. I really thought you had turned over a new leaf. I'm hurt.”
“Frankly, McDeere, I don't give a damn. Just throw the keys over.”
“Since you asked politely and your gun is pointed at my belly, I guess I'd better.” He tossed the keys to Gurney. Gurney caught them one-handed and quickly unscrewed the head of the falcon. A small piece of paper, tightly rolled up, poked out from the body.
“It's here,” he called triumphantly to Allyson.
“You mean the research on the super-grape?” McDeere asked innocently.
Gurney scowled. “What do you know about it?”
“Come on, Gurney. I don't just use my head as a place to keep my hat. Something about this case seemed fishy from the start. Asked a few questions of a friend at the Napa Wine Association. First thing I found out is that O'Hara does have a daughter. But she lives in Spain with a painter who draws dogs playing poker. She's still there. Have a friend in the village where she lives. She's quite a famous beauty, apparently. Though she doesn't have the animal magnetism you do, Allyson O'Hara. But that's not your real name, I take it?”
“No,” she whispered. “It's Lily.”
“You said something about the super-grape,” said Gurney, who seemed amused by the ruse. McDeere would have loved to slap him around a little. Gurney had the kind of face that was like a buffet table. You wanted to hit it more than once.
“My friend at the NWA said that there had been rumors flying that O'Hara was developing a super-grape that could grow under any conditions. That would revolutionize the whole wine industry, wouldn't it? I'm guessing that Bin 451 was the first test wine. How is it?”
“It's delightful,” said Ashley. “Complex with a meatiness thatâ”
“Yeah,” said Burn. “But O'Hara wasn't going to share it, was he? That would anger a whole lot of people. Especially a small winery trying to make a splash in the industry.” McDeere turned to the ugly midget. “A
little
winery situated in Oregon of all places. Lady Littleman Wines. I figure you for the Littleman.” McDeere then turned to Allyson. “I guess that makes
you
the lady. Oregon must have a looser definition of the word than we do here.”
Allyson's eyes flashed with anger. “We offered O'Hara a tidy sum and”âshe pausedâ“other considerations. He laughed! No one laughs at me.”
“Is that why you killed him? For the super-grape or because he didn't want to swim in your lady pool?” McDeere's question dripped with revulsion.
“Don't be disgusting!”
Gurney kept the gun steady. “What makes you think we killed him? He's inâ”
“Argentina?” McDeere interrupted. “Chasing the blue-throated macaw? Yeah, you kept pushing that story like it was an old rich lady at the top of the stairs. Only problem is, that particular bird is only found in a small area in Bolivia. And a bird enthusiast like O'Hara would know that.” McDeere smiled at the astonished faces of Gurney and Allyson. “Yeah, I've dabbled in birdwatching. If Daddy O'Hara's not in South America, chances are he's dead. I'm guessing buried out back, pushing up the daisies. Be interesting to see if that will influence the taste of the wine.”
“Think you're pretty smart, don't you?” Gurney sneered. “Well, you were dumb enough to swallow that straight-and-narrow story earlier. Littleman and I were cellmates on the Rock. Got to be good friends. Told me how his sister was keeping his business going while he was doing time, how they needed a little help. Discovered I had a useful connection. Before I was in for the long stretch, I spent a night in the drunk tank with O'Hara. We'd been at a speakeasy and things had gotten out of hand. He was plastered and kept yapping about this super-grape that was going to make him millions.”
McDeere stopped him. “Let me see if I can guess the rest. After you get out, you plead with the guy for a job, which he gives you. A job that gives you access to the whole house. Nice way to repay his kindness. I figure he got wise to you.”
“Yeah. So I had to use some
persuasion
to get him to tell me that he had hidden his notes in the little falcon on his key ring.” Malone cracked his knuckles (not an easy feat while holding a gun) and shrugged. “He stopped breathing before he could tell me where he hid it. So I told Allyson here to hire you. Knew you could find it and figured that I could get my life back once you did.” Malone took a step closer to Burn and raised the gun so that Burn could see down the barrel. “I lost part of my life when you put me away, and now I get to take all of your life in return.”