I told Janet Worley to tell me about his personality, his character, and she did. He was honest, she told me. He was rich, of course, but according to Janet, Harry Chandler was very normal for such a famous person.
Normal?
Harry Chandler was to the movies what O. J. Simpson was to football.
Janet said, “After Mrs. Chandler disappeared, during the year and a half when Mr. Chandler was indisposed, we became almost like his family. We moved from our flat in number two into the main house so that the place wouldn’t go cold.
“Mr. Chandler appreciated that. He has always been very generous,” Janet said. “He paid for Nicole’s education. He gave us things. Gave us a car one year, didn’t he, Nigel?”
“His dead wife’s car.”
“Yes. It was secondhand, but we still have it.”
I asked, “When did you see Mr. Chandler last?”
“Three months ago. Yes. He came for dinner on Christmas. I always find Mr. Chandler charming, although maybe a little distracted. Always rehearsing something in his mind, I expect.”
Something crashed against the stove behind us.
I turned. Nigel Worley’s face looked like a furrowed field.
He said, “Rehearsing? Distracted? Yes, he was distracted. He’s a bloody womanizer,” Nigel Worley said. “Well, it was in all the papers, Jan. Don’t look at me like I drowned the baby in the bath.”
“He was a ladies’ man,” Janet conceded.
“Harry Chandler is what you might call an equal-opportunity ladies’ man. He liked all types,” Nigel went on. “Actresses mostly, but he fancied the odd waitress or even women of a certain age.”
Janet’s stiff expression tightened.
“I don’t think he ever met a woman he didn’t like,” said Nigel Worley, turning his eyes directly to me for the first time. “Harry Chandler would like you.”
His stare was chilling. It was as if he had put his hands around my neck and squeezed.
Chapter 19
A young woman burst into the room, the sound breaking her father’s double-fisted lock on my eyes.
Janet Worley said, “Nicole, these people are from the police.” To me, she said, “I’ll be in the parlor,” and she left the room.
Nicole Worley was midtwenties, pretty, with a heart-shaped face, dark hair, green eyes, flushed cheeks. She wore jeans and a green sweatshirt with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife logo on the front.
Nicole asked her father, “What’s going on with you?”
“Your mother. She drives me round the bend.”
“I wish you wouldn’t fight.”
“The way she goes on about that self-important prick — ”
“Stop that.”
“You women are crazy.”
“All right. All right,” Nicole said to her father. To me, she said, “I’m Nicole. You wanted to see me?”
Nigel started cleaning the burners on the stove, and Nicole joined us at the table.
I said, “We need some basic information, Nicole. Where were you over the last few days?”
“I was off on a rescue,” she said. “Pronghorn antelope get panicked at headlights, or at anything really. This one was hung up in a fence.”
“And when did you leave for this rescue?”
“Friday morning.”
“Were you alone?”
“Yes. I drove up north to Mendocino County by myself. What is it that you want to know? Did I kill some people and then dig up their heads? Leave them on the back step to scare my parents?”
“You tell me, Nicole. Did you have anything to do with the remains found here yesterday morning?”
“Absolutely not, and I cannot imagine how something like this could ever have happened.”
“Can you tell me how it’s possible that the three of you live in this house and are completely unaware of a series of crimes that happened over time outside the back door?”
Behind us, Nigel Worley said angrily, “Bloody cheek, these questions.”
“Dad, don’t you have something else you could be doing?” said Nicole.
Nigel Worley was a big, angry man with large hands. I could picture him turning violent. But if he’d killed these seven people, his exhuming their heads made no logical sense. And putting a garland of chrysanthemum blossoms around them seemed a little dainty for him.
I said, “Mr. Worley. Do you think Mr. Chandler could have been involved in what has happened here?”
“Killing and digging would require actual labor, wouldn’t it? I don’t picture Mr. Chandler getting his hands dirty.”
I didn’t know about Harry Chandler, but Nigel Worley looked like he got his hands dirty every day.
Chapter 20
Nigel Worley slammed around behind us, crashing the last of the iron trivets against the stove.
When Nigel had left the room, Conklin put a picture of the recently decapitated woman’s head in front of Nicole. Her eyes widened at the sight of that decomposing face and she pushed back from the table.
“Do you know this woman?” Conklin asked her.
“I’ve never seen her in my life.”
“This is one of the two heads your parents discovered yesterday morning,” I said.
“It’s revolting. It’s horrible.”
“She was walking around last week, Nicole. Then her head was cut off with a saw.”
“I find this unfathomable.”
“What is your relationship with Harry Chandler?”
“I’m his caretakers’ daughter. That’s all. Do you want my opinion of him?”
“Please.”
“He’s been accused of horrible things before, but I know him to be a good man. He has been very kind to my family. We’ve been good to him too.”
“Your father seems to dislike him.”
“Oh, all that growling means nothing. He thinks my mother is starstruck and he hates that.”
“You were sixteen when you came to live here?”
“That’s right.”
“And the reason you moved from London?”
“My parents had a romantic notion about America. As soon as we arrived, I fell in love with this city and this house. I’m kind of an expert on the Ellsworth family. Harry lets me live in number two at no charge,” Nicole explained, “and so I give lectures about the house to the tourists in exchange for free rent.”
I said, “So you know everything about this house, Nicole. Everything except that the backyard was basically a cemetery.”
The young woman’s face colored.
The direct approach wasn’t working, or maybe Nicole knew as little as she said she did.
Before I could fire off another question, my phone rang.
I glanced at the caller ID, got up, and took the call in the pantry.
Claire said, “I spoke with Dr. Perlmutter. She said looks like all the skulls are female. We’ve got a little multicultural mix going on here. Two of the skulls plus the head of our Jane Doe makes three white women. We
