“Cody?”

“Yes. Cody was fascinated by the camper. Full of interesting scents and all kinds of nooks and crannies. Travis seemed to like having his company, and even left a window screen open so that Cody could get in and out if he wanted to. But I think Cody’s there for the duration.”

“So that’s why Cody isn’t in here begging. I brought lasagna,” she said, putting the dish in the refrigerator.

“Sounds great, but Travis might not have much of an appetite.”

“You two getting along any better?”

I shrugged. “Hard to say, under the circumstances.”

There was a soft knock on the front door. I opened it to find Travis standing on the front steps, sleep-tousled and pale. His fists were shoved into his pockets and he was staring at a point somewhere near my shoes. “I don’t think I can sleep any longer,” he said. “Mind if I come in for a while?”

“Of course not. Did you lose the key I gave you?”

He shook his head. “No. But your privacy…”

“Next time just use the key. You won’t disturb me. You’re here as my guest.”

He saw Rachel as she walked up behind me. She took one look at him and said, “Mi displace molto…,” stepping forward to embrace him. He didn’t refuse the embrace, but it seemed nearly to undo his struggle to maintain his composure. He looked over her shoulder at me, and I decided to see it as a request.

“Where’s my cat?” I asked brusquely.

“He didn’t want to leave the camper,” he said, stepping away from her, visibly relaxing. “He found a spot he likes at the foot of the bed.”

As he continued to babble on about the cat, Rachel picked up her cue, and made no more sympathetic comments. She told him that she had made something for our dinner, a lasagna from an old family recipe, and proceeded to try to distract him with stories about her grandmother’s skills in the kitchen.

Dinner passed without much comment, and we probably could have served just about anything to Travis with much the same result-he didn’t even bother toying with Rachel’s culinary masterpiece. He was silent during the meal, not responding when we asked questions. We weren’t ignored, really-to say he ignored us would be to suggest a choice I’m not sure he made. He was obviously too lost in his own thoughts to hear us.

When we stood up to clear our plates, he suddenly said, “Rachel, you’re a private detective?”

“Yes.”

“I want to hire you.”

“To find out who killed your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t do it.”

We both looked at her in surprise.

“Why not?” he asked.

“I’d need the permission of my current client. I’m already working for Irene.”

He was openly dismayed.

“I don’t mind working together,” I said. “I’d prefer it.”

He didn’t respond.

“We better tell McCain we’ve found him,” Rachel said, then explained to Travis, “He’s with LAPD Homicide. Lots of people have been looking for you lately.”

“I’m sure they have,” he said, his voice full of sarcasm. “Slay the fatted calf, the bastard has returned! And he’s a rich bastard!”

“Why do you insist on using that term?” I snapped. “I’ve never referred to you in that way.”

“I insist on it because for several miserable years, I lived with being called a bastard-and worse. And the truth, Irene, is that the term is accurate. My parents were not legally married when I was born.”

“Well, maybe that changed,” I shot back without thinking. “According to your father’s death certificate, they were married.”

For a moment, he was completely silent, then he shook his head and said, “Impossible. He lied or the doctor lied.” He smiled. “Or you’re lying now.”

14

Rachel held up a hand and said, “Basta!”

“That’s Italian for ‘Enough!”“ I said quickly, and Travis, realizing exactly what had caused me to be anxious over her choice of that particular word, started laughing at me.

I marched over to the phone, pulled out the directory and started thumbing through it.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Looking up Brad Curtis’s number. I’m going to leave a message on his service. He can call me back and tell me why he’s falsifying information on death certificates.”

“The man is probably busy helping cancer patients. You want to disturb him with this nonsense?”

“Hold on,” Rachel said, “hold on. Travis, humor me, and assume for a moment that your parents did marry.”

“I’m telling you, she wasn’t even speaking to him. She wasn’t speaking to me because I dared to make contact with him.”

“But-”

“Why would they marry?” he asked. “It wasn’t to give me his name before he died, if that’s what you think. He openly acknowledged me as his son, even during the years I didn’t want him to.”

“Why didn’t you want him to?” Rachel asked.

He didn’t answer.

“What would have happened to the estate if your father died unmarried?” I asked.

“Unless he changed his will, what’s left of his estate passes on entirely to me,” Travis said. “He had no other children; I’m his sole heir. Oh, God-I should try to reach W, and Mr. Brennan.”

“W?” I asked. “Who is W?”

“Ulysses Ulkins. Double U. My father’s assistant. Mr. Brennan is my father’s lawyer. I’ll call-maybe on Monday. W will probably be in the office tomorrow, but-I can’t. Not yet,” he said, struggling to keep his composure.

We were all quiet for a moment.

“You said something about ‘what’s left of the estate,”“ I said. ”What did you mean?“

“Most of my father’s money has already been given to me. He set up trusts.”

I glanced over at Rachel; she gave me a look that said she was going to leave everything up to me.

“Travis,” I said, “I think you’re in danger.”

“Of course I am.”

That took both of us by surprise. He seemed amused by our reaction.

“Remember when you caught up with me today? I thought you wanted money. Some of the DeMonts, the family of my father’s wife-I mean Gwendolyn,” he said, looking at me. “Some of them believe my father robbed them of their inheritance.”

“They think your father murdered Gwendolyn DeMont,” Rachel said.

“Yes,” he answered. “They believe my father murdered her for her money and so that he could be free to live with his other family-my mother and me.”

“Did he?” I asked.

With a small smile, he said, “You should have asked years ago.”

“Did he?” I repeated.

“Kill her? I honestly don’t know.”

As I sat trying to absorb the implications of that statement, he added, “If he was the one who killed her, he didn’t kill her to be with us. My mother and I had discovered his marriage to Gwendolyn, you see, and that caused-a certain number of changes in our happy little family.”

“Start from the beginning,” I said. “Tell me what you know about Arthur and Gwendolyn.”

“You’ve already forgotten the story of the princess in the garden?”

“No, but maybe you could tell the sequel to that story in a little more straightforward style.”

“I liked the way he told it,” Rachel said.

“Thank you,” Travis said. “It’s nice to be appreciated.”

I held my tongue.

We waited. He sat quietly, looking as if he were mentally composing another tale. He stared down at his scarred hand; his expression changed to one of profound sorrow. Suddenly he stood up. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” he said. “Not tonight. It’s too soon. Excuse me.”

He murmured thanks to Rachel for the meal, said good night, and walked to the front door. I followed him.

“Travis, wait,” I said, as he opened it.

“What do you want?” he asked.

I stepped outside with him on the front porch, closing the door behind us. It was dark there, and somehow that made it easier to talk to him. The porch lamp wasn’t on, and there was no moon. A street lamp down the block provided the only light.