15

His address matched a white stucco cottage with castle pretensions: two turrets, one oversized over the front door, the other a vestigial nipple atop the right corner. An old woman wearing a wide straw hat stooped on the sidewalk, removing weeds by hand. By the time I cut the Seville's engine, she was upright with her hands on her hips. She wore brown canvas gardening pants with rubber kneepads and had sueded skin and judgmental eyes.

“Hi, I'm looking for Reed Muscadine.”

“He lives in back.” Then she stiffened, as if regretting telling me that much. “Who're you?”

I got out of the car and showed her my police ID.

“Ph.D.?”

“I'm a psychologist. I work with the police.” I looked down the driveway. An apartment sat on top of the garage, accessed by steep, skinny front steps.

“He's not in,” she said. “I'm Mrs. Green. I own the place. What's going on?”

“We're questioning him with regard to a crime. Not as a suspect, just someone who knew the victim.”

“Who's the victim?”

“A professor at the University.”

“And he knew her?”

I nodded.

“I lived here forty-four years,” she said, “never knew a victim. Now you can't step outside without getting nervous. A friend of mine's nephew's a policeman in Glendale. He tells her there's nothing the police can do til you're hurt or killed. Told her to buy a gun, carry it around, and if they catch you it's like a traffic ticket. So I did. I've also got Sammy.”

She whistled twice, I heard something slam shut, and a big, thick-set, fawn-colored dog with a sad black face ambled around from the back of the house. Bullish face- cousin to Spike? But this creature weighed at least one hundred pounds and its eyes were all business.

Mrs. Green held out a palm and the dog stopped.

“Mastiff?” I said.

“Bullmastiff. Only breed ever designed specifically to bring down people- they raised ' em in England to catch game poachers. Come here, baby.”

The dog sniffed, lowered its head, and walked over slowly, shoulders rotating, massive limbs moving in fluid concert. Drool dripped down its dewlaps. Its eyes were small, nearly black, and they hadn't left my face.

“Hey, Sammy,” I said.

“Samantha. The females are the really protective ones- c'mere, puddin'.”

The dog made its way over, examined my knees, looked at Mrs. Green.

“Yeah, okay, kiss him,” she said.

A big mouth nuzzled my hand.

“Sweet,” I said.

“If you're right, she is. If you're wrong, well…” Her laugh was as dry as her skin. The dog rubbed against her thigh and she petted it.

“Any idea when Reed will be back?”

“No, he's an actor.”

“Irregular hours?”

“Right now it's night hours, he's waiting tables out in the Valley.”

From soap opera to that? I said, “No luck in the acting department?”

“Don't fault him,” she said. “It's a tough business, believe me, I know. I did some work back a ways, mostly bit parts, but I did have a walk-on in Night After Night-that's a Mae West film. Classic. They made her out to be some wild hussy but she was smarter than all of them. I should've bought real estate when she did. Instead I got married.”

She brushed her pants and kneaded the dog's thick neck.

“So some professor got killed. And you're talking to all the students?”

“We're trying to be as thorough as possible.”

“Well, like I said, Reed's an okay kid. Pays the rent pretty much on time and always lets me know if he can't. I give him a break because he's big and strong and handy and fixes things. Real good with Sammy, too, so when I go away to my sister in Palm Springs I've got someone to take care of her. Tell the truth, he reminds me of my husband- Stan was a movie grip, know what that is?”

“They move sets around.”

“They move everything around. Stan was all muscle. Did stunt work til he broke his collarbone working for Keaton. My daughter's in the business, too, reads scripts for CAA. So I have a soft spot for anyone dreamy enough to still want to be part of it. That's why I rented to Reed with just a first month down. Usually I get first and last. And he's been a good tenant. Even when he got laid up, he didn't laze around too long.”

“Laid up how?”

“Few months ago. He slipped a disc, lifting those weights he's got- well, looky here, you can talk to him yourself.”

A battered yellow Volkswagen pulled into the driveway. Rust fringed the wheel wells.

No Porsche, yet.

The man who got out was older than I expected- thirty or so- and huge. Six-five, tanned deeply, with very pale gray eyes and long, thick black hair brushed back and flowing over a yard of shoulder. His features were strong, square, perfect for the camera. The cleft in his chin was Kirk Douglas-caliber. He wore a heavy gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off to expose side-of-beef biceps, very brief black shorts, and sandals without socks. I tried to picture him with Tessa Bowlby.

He shot me a quick look, the gray eyes curious and intelligent; Tarzan with an IQ. A brown paper bag was in one hand. Handing it to Mrs. Green, he added a milk-fed smile.

“How's it going, Maidie. Hey, Sam.” Stroking the bullmastiff, he looked at me again. The dog's neck bulged and furrowed as she tilted her head back at him. Her eyes had softened. A big pink tongue bathed his fingers.

“Fine as rain,” said Mrs. Green. “This fellow's from the police, Reed, but no cop. A psychologist, isn't that something? He's here to talk to you about some murdered professor. What'd you go and do now, kid?”

Muscadine's thick brows curved and he squinted. “My professor?”

“Hope Devane,” I said.

“Oh… Those are fresh today, Maidie.”

“From where, that health-food place?”

“Where else?”

“Organic.” She snorted. “Did you ever figure maybe the reason I lived so long is all the preservatives I took pickled me like a deli cuke?”

She looked inside the bag. “Peaches out of season? Must have cost a fortune.”

“I only got two,” said Muscadine. “The apples were actually cheap, and look at that color.” He turned to me. “A psychologist?”

“I work with the police.”

“I don't understand.”

“I'm looking into Professor Devane's committee work.”

“Oh. Sure. Want to come up?”

“Devane,” said Mrs. Green, scratching her nose. “Why is that name familiar?”

“She was murdered in Westwood,” said Muscadine. “What was it, three months ago?”

I nodded.

“Oh, yeah, the one who wrote a book,” said Mrs. Green. “She was your professor, Reed?”

“She taught me,” said Muscadine, looking at me.

“A professor.” She shook her head. “In a neighborhood like that. What a world- thanks for the fruit, Reed.”

“My pleasure, Maidie.”

Muscadine and I started up the driveway.

Mrs. Green said, “But don't spend like that, again. Not til you become a star.”

As we reached the stairs, he said, “Guess how old she is?”

“Eighty?”

“Ninety next month, maybe I should take preservatives.” He vaulted the steps three at a time and was unlocking the front door when I reached the top.

The apartment was a single front room with a closet-sized kitchen and a rear bath.

Two walls were mirrored, the others were painted true white. An enormous chrome weight machine took up the center, flanked by a pressing bench, a curl-bar, and, against the wall, a rack of dumbbells arranged by poundage. Iron discs for the bench-bar were stacked like giant black checkers. A double window bordered by ridiculously dainty gingham curtains looked down on blossoming orange trees. Facing the glass were a motorized treadmill, a stair-stepper, a cross-country ski machine, an exercise bike, and wedged in the corner, a double-sized mattress and box spring and two pillows. Black bed linens. I thought of Tessa and Muscadine grappling.