She ragged me, a little, because I seemed preoccupied, and wasn’t terribly good company. But that was because I was thinking about the Overell “Yacht Murder” (as the papers had already starting calling it). I had sold my crime scene photos to Jim Richardson, at the
Call it guilt, call it conscience, call it sheer professionalism, but I knew I hadn’t finished this job. Walter Overell deserved more for that two-hundred buck retainer-just like he’d deserved better from that shrewd sexed- up daughter of his.
So on Monday, bright and early, looking like a tourist in sportshirt and chinos, I began looking. What was I looking for? A slip of paper…a slip of paper in the desert…sounds worse than a needle in a haystack, but it wasn’t. I found the damn thing before noon.
Chatsworth was a mountain-ringed hamlet in the West San Fernando Valley that used a Wild West motif to attract tourists, offering them horseback riding and hiking trails, with the ocean and beaches and desert close at hand for lovers of the outdoors-like that Boy Scout Bud Gollum and his bosomy Campfire Girl.
The guy behind the counter in the sparse storefront at the Trojan Powder Company looked a little like Gabby Hayes-white-bearded, prospector-grizzled, in a plaid shirt and bib overalls. But he had his original teeth and a faint British accent, which took him out of the running for playing a Roy Rogers or Gene Autry sidekick.
This was the owner of the place, and he was looking at the photo I’d handed him, taking a closer look than he had at the Illinois P.I. badge I’d flashed him.
“That young woman will never drown,” he said, with a faintly salacious smile.
“I’m not so much interested whether you recognize her tits as if her face is familiar-or her boyfriend’s.”
“I recognize the whole batch of them-both faces, both bosoms, for that matter. The girl didn’t come in, though-she sat out in their convertible-a Pontiac, I believe. I could see her right through the front window.”
“Did he make a purchase?”
“I should say-fifty sticks of dynamite.”
Jesus, that was a lot of dinah.
“This is fresh in my memory,” the proprietor said, “because it was just last Friday.”
Day before the boat blew up.
“Can anybody stroll in here and buy that stuff?”
“It’s a free country-but back in the early days of the war, when folks were afraid of saboteurs, city and county officials passed an ordinance, requiring purchasers to sign for what they buy.”
I liked the sound of that. “Can I see the signed receipt?”
Bud had not signed his own name-“R.L. Standish” had purchased the fifty sticks of dynamite-but I had no doubt handwriting experts would confirm this as the Boy Scout’s scrawl.
“Some officers from Newport Beach will be along to talk to you,” I told him.
“Fine-what about reporters?”
“Good idea,” I said, and used the phone.
I found Chief Hodgkinson at the Newport Beach dock, where the grim, charred wreckage had been surfaced from the depth of eighteen feet-about all that remained was the black blistered hull. The sun was high and golden on the waters, and the idyllic setting of stucco villas in the background and expensive pleasure craft on either side was turned bizarre by the presence of the scorched husk of the
Seated in the Beachfront Cafe across from the blue-uniformed, heavyset chief, in the same booth I’d occupied Saturday night, I filled him in on what I’d discovered up Chatsworth way. He excused himself to pass the information along to a couple of D.A.’s investigators who would make the trip to the Trojan Powder Company.
When the chief returned, bearing a plate with a piece of pecan pie with whipped cream, he sat and ate and shared some information.
“Pretty clear your instincts were right about those kids,” he said gruffly but good-naturedly. “It’s just hard to believe-patricide
“The late Walter Overell was supposedly worth around a million. And, like I told you, he was threatening to cut his daughter off, if she married her four-eyed romeo.”
“What made you think to go looking for that sales receipt, Mr. Heller?”
“I knew they’d gone ‘picnicking’ in the San Fernando Valley, and a college pal of Bud’s said the loving couple liked to hike up around Chatsworth. Plus, I knew if Bud had been a Radio Man 1st Class in the war, he had the technical knowhow to rig a bomb. Hell, Chief, Saturday night, you could smell the dynamite in the air-and the murder.”
He nodded his agreement. “It’s as cold-blooded a crime as I’ve ever come across. We found thirty-one sticks of unexploded dynamite in the galley, crude time bomb thing, rigged with wire and tape to an alarm clock-second of two charges. Bulkhead kept the larger one from goin’ off. Which was lucky.”
“Not for the Overells.”
“No, the smaller bundle of dynamite was enough to kill ’em plenty dead,” he said, chewing a bite of pecan pie. “But it wasn’t enough to cover up the rest of the evidence.”
“Such as?”
“Such as what the coroner discovered in his autopsies-before the explosion, both Mom and Dad had been beaten to death with a ball-peen hammer we found aboard the ship…. That there was no water in their lungs backs that theory up.”
“Jesus-that is cold.”
A young uniformed officer was approaching; he had a wide-eyed, poleaxed expression.
“Chief,” the young cop said, leaning in, “somebody’s here and wants to talk to you-and you won’t believe who it is.”
Within a minute, a somber yet bright-eyed Louise Overell-in a short-sleeved, cream-colored, well-filled sweater and snug-fitting blue jeans-was standing with her hands fig-leafed before her.
“Hello, Chief Hodgkinson,” she said, cheerfully. “How are you today?”
“Why, I’m just fine,” he said.
“I’m doing better…thanks,” the blue-eyed teenager said, answering a question Hodgkinson hadn’t asked. “The reason I’m here is, I wanted to ask about the car.”
“The car?”
“My parents’ car. I know it was left here in the lot, and I thought maybe I could drive it back up to Flintridge…I’ve been staying up there, since…the tragedy.”
“Excuse me,” I said, getting out, and I flashed the chief a look that I hoped he would understand as meaning he should stall the girl.
“Well,” the chief was saying, “I’m not sure. I think perhaps we need to talk to the District Attorney, and make sure the vehicle isn’t going to be impounded for…”
And I was gone, heading for the parking lot.
Wherever Louise went, so surely too went Bud-particularly since another driver would be needed to transport the family sedan back to the Flintridge estate.
Among the cars in the gravelled lot were my own rental job, several police cars, Bud’s Pontiac convertible, and a midnight blue ‘47 Caddy that I just knew had to have been Walter Overell’s.
This opinion was formed, in part, by the fact that Bud Gollum-in a red sportshirt and denim slacks-was trying to get into the car. I approached casually-the boy had something in his left hand, and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a weapon.
Then I saw: a roll of electrical tape, and spool of wire. What the hell was he up to?
Then it came to me: while little Louise was keeping the chief busy, Bud was attempting to plant the tape and wire…which would no doubt match up with what had been used on the makeshift time bomb…in Overell’s car. When the chief turned the vehicle over to Louise, the “evidence” would be discovered.
But the Caddy was locked, and apparently Louise hadn’t been able to provide a key, because Bud was grunting in frustration as he tried every door.
I just stood there, hands on my hips, rocking on my heels on the gravel. “Is that your plan, Bud? To try to
