The Murder Book

white hair that snaked past his shoulders and a snowy beard that reached nearly to his navel. He wore a peanut- butter-colored buckskin jacket, denim shirt, blue jeans, a turquoise bracelet, one turquoise earring.

Old-time trapper or geriatric hippie, hand in hand with a sun-punished woman who barely reached his shoulder. I saw Milo's eyes widen.

'He was my Flower Power Grandpa,' said Marge. 'Different from when you knew him, huh?'

'A bit,' said Milo.

She placed the picture in her lap. 'So what kind of advice did you hope to get from him on this case of yours?'

'I was just wondering if Pierce had any general recollections.'

'Something that old and now you're working it again? Who got killed?'

'A girl named Janie Ingalls. Pierce ever mention that name?'

'No,' she said. 'Like I said, he didn't talk about his work.'

'Did Pierce leave any papers behind?'

'What kind of papers?'

'Anything to do with his work- newspaper clippings, photos, police mementos?'

'No,' she said. 'When he moved out of his Simi house, he got rid of everything. Didn't even own a car. When we went out, I had to pick him up.'

'Back when I knew him,' said Milo, 'he was a photography buff. He ever get back into that?'

'Yes, he did, as a matter of fact. He enjoyed taking walks in the hills and capturing nature, bought himself a cheap little camera. When I saw how much he liked it, I bought him a Nikon for his sixty-eighth birthday. His pictures were pretty. Want to see them?'

She took us to the house's single bedroom, a tidy, pine-paneled space filled by a queen bed covered with a batik spread and flanked by two mismatched nightstands. Framed photos blanketed the walls. Hills, valleys, trees, arroyos dry and flowing, sunrises, sunsets, the kiss of winter snow. Crisp colors, good composition. But nothing higher than vegetable on the evolutionary scale, not even a bird in the sky.

'Nice,' said Milo. 'Did Pierce have his own darkroom?'

'We converted a half bath. Wasn't he talented?'

'He was, ma'am. When I knew Pierce, he liked to read about science.'

'Did he? Well, I never saw that. Mostly he'd turned meditative. Could just sit in the living room and stare out at the view for hours. Except for the times when he got the cop look or had those dreams, he was at peace. Ninety- nine percent of the time he was at peace.'

'During the one percent,' I said, 'did he ever say what was bothering him?'

'No, sir.'

'During the last month or so before his accident, how was his mood?'

'Fine,' she said. Her face clouded. 'Oh no, don't go thinking that. It was an accident. Pierce wasn't a strong rider, and he was sixty-eight years old. I shouldn't have let him ride that long by himself, even on Akhbar.'

'That long?' said Milo.

'He was gone half a day. Usually, he only rode for an hour or so. He had his Nikon with him, said he wanted to catch some afternoon sun.'

'Taking pictures.'

'He never got to. The roll inside his camera was blank. He must've fallen right at the beginning and lain there for a while. I should've gone looking sooner. The doctor assured me that kind of head wound would have taken him right away. At least he didn't suffer.'

'Hit his head on a rock,' said Milo.

She shook her head. 'I don't want to talk about this anymore.'

'Sorry, ma'am.' Milo stepped closer to the photos on the wall. 'These really are good, ma'am. Did Pierce keep any albums of his slides or proofs?'

Marge stepped around the bed to the left-hand nightstand. Atop the table were a woman's watch and an empty glass. Sliding open a drawer, she removed two albums and placed them on the bed.

A pair of blue leather books. Fine morocco, a size and style I recognized.

No labeling. Marge opened one, began turning pages. Photographs encased in stiff plastic jackets, held in place by black, adhesive corner pockets.

Green grass, gray rock, brown dirt, blue sky. Pages of Pierce Schwinn's fantasy of an inanimate world.

Milo and I made admiring noises. The second book held more of the same. He ran a finger down its spine. 'Nice leather.'

'I bought them for him.'

'Where?' said Milo. 'Love to have one for myself.'

'O'Neill & Chapin, right down the road- over by the Celestial Cafe. They cater to artists, carry quality things. These are originally from England, but they're discontinued. I bought the last three.'

'Where's the third?'

'Pierce never got to it- you know, why don't I give it to you? I have no need for it and just thinking about Pierce's unfinished business makes me want to cry. And Pierce would've liked that- your having it. He thought a lot of you.'

'Really, ma'am-'

'No, I insist,' said Marge. Crossing the room and stepping into a walk-in closet, she emerged a moment later, empty-handed. 'I could swear I saw it up here, but that was a while back. Maybe it's somewhere else… maybe Pierce took it over to the darkroom, let's check.'

The converted bathroom was at the end of the hall, five-by-five, windowless, acrid with chemicals, a narrow, wooden file cabinet next to the sink. Marge slid open drawers, revealed boxes of photographic paper, assorted bottles, but no blue leather album. No slides or proofs, either.

I said, 'Looks like Pierce mounted everything he had.'

'I guess,' she said. 'But that third book- so expensive, it's a shame to let it go to waste… it's got to be here, somewhere. Tell you what, if it shows up, I'll send it to you. What's your address?'

Milo handed her a card.

'Homicide,' she said. 'That word just jumps out at you. I never thought much about Pierce's life before me. Didn't want to picture him spending so much time with the dead- no offense.'

'It's not a job for everyone, ma'am.'

'Pierce- he was outwardly strong, but inside, he was sensitive. Had a need for beauty.'

'Looks like he found it,' said Milo. 'Looks like he found real happiness.'

Marge's eyes moistened. 'You're nice to say so. Well, it's been good meeting you. Coupla good listeners.' She smiled. 'Must be a cop thing.'

We followed her to the front door, where Milo said, 'Did Pierce ever have any visitors?'

'Not a one, Detective. The two of us hardly ever left the ranch, except to buy provisions, and that was maybe once a month for bulk shopping in Oxnard or Ventura. Once in a while we'd go into Santa Barbara for a movie or to a play at the Ojai Theater, but we never socialized. Tell the truth, we were both darned antisocial. Evenings we'd sit and look up at the sky. That was more than enough for us.'

The three of us walked to the Seville. Marge looked toward the horses, and said, 'Hold on, guys, groom time's coming.'

Milo said, 'Thanks for your time, Mrs. Schwinn.'

'Mrs. Schwinn,' said Marge. 'Never thought I'd be Mrs. Anybody, but I do like the sound of that. I guess I can be Mrs. Schwinn forever, can't I?'

When we got in, she leaned into the passenger window. 'You would've liked the Pierce I knew, Detective. He didn't judge anyone.'

Touching Milo's hand briefly, she turned on her heel and hurried toward the corral.