—
Four twists of asphalt later we arrived at a flat pad housing three burgundy clapboard structures, an empty corral, and a smaller fenced-in area holding miniature goats and sheep. More oaks to the left, fencing a grove of olive and citrus trees in full fruit. The tail end of the drive was lined with yucca, aloe, and ground-hugging thatches of creeping bougainvillea.
All of that backed by two or three acres of tall grass followed by pink and gray granite mountainside.
The front structure was a one-story house. To the right stood a cabin of the same style and composition. Abutting the corral and the pen was the largest building, low-pitched and windowless. Bringing a knowing smile to Milo’s glare-ravaged face.
The barn.
I said, “You’re looking like a narc.”
“Whatever it takes.”
He rolled toward a carport created by screwing together steel pipes, covered by white canvas, and housing a white Ford F-150 pickup, a coffee-colored Mercedes diesel station wagon, and a white Toyota Supra.
I kept up with Milo’s eager lope. A rubber welcome mat said Welcome!!!!
Another staked sign to the left of the door: For patient calls, please ring in at Dr. Burdette’s office right behind the house.
The cabin.
Milo said, “I’ve been called beastly but let’s start with being human.”
His bell-ring caused a dog to bark. Then another. Then, a canine chorus.
From within came a whooshing noise. Paws scratching the other side of the door, an opera of howls, growls, yips.
A woman called out, “Quiet, guys!”
Immediate silence.
The same voice said, “It’s open, come in.”
Milo turned the knob and we faced a convocation of dogs self-arranged in height order, like schoolkids in a class photo.
In front, two unalike brown terrier mixes looked up at us wide-eyed, quivering and breathing hard, fighting the desire to express themselves vocally. Behind them stood a slightly larger, curly-coated, bluish-gray poodlish thing with world-weary eyes and a huge drooping tongue. Occupying the next tier was what looked like a purebred white greyhound with a missing ear that did nothing to diminish its aristocratic air and a colossal black, white, and tan bearish creation with some Newfoundland in it, panting.
Sandra Burdette stood behind the largest dog, her hand resting on its withers.
She said, “Excellent listening, guys. Now you get treats.”
The dogs turned in unison, precise as an honor guard, and faced her. She lowered the hand. They sat. She said, “You are so good,” and, beginning with the terriers, now nearly apoplectic from immobility, offered each eager mouth something bone-shaped and green.
“Enjoy!”
Treats in-jaw, the party dispersed without a glance at us, revealing all of Sandra Burdette.
She wore a pink gingham western shirt with pearl snaps, untucked over baggy jeans. Face scrubbed and sunburned at the edges, gray hair tied up loosely, a bag of green treats in one hand, dish towel in the other.
While dealing with the dogs, she hadn’t paid much attention to us. Now she did and her eyes narrowed.
Milo said, “Lieutenant Sturgis—”
“Yes, I remember. How could I forget? This is a surprise. I left the door open because I’m expecting a FedEx with some horse meds for Will. This evening he’ll be tending to a pregnant mare in Santa Paula.”
Milo said, “Is Dr. Burdette here now?”
Head shake. “Ojai. Amiatina donkeys. What did you need to talk to him about?”
“Just following up, ma’am. Happy to talk to you.”
“To me? About what?”
“We just learned the identity of the victim.”
“Oh. It took this long?”
“Her name’s Suzanne DaCosta. Sometimes she went by Kimbee.”
Blank face.
Milo said, “So you don’t know her.”
“Me? I didn’t know anyone at the wedding except for our few friends. Have you talked to the other side?”
“Everyone’s being contacted,” said Milo. Artful dodge. “We actually wanted to speak to the newlyweds because she’s closer in age to them but apparently they’ve decided to take an early honeymoon.”
“Yes, they have.” Sandy Burdette squinted. “I’m confused. Hasn’t this already been covered? When you spoke to all of us and no one knew her?”
“We always follow up, Mrs. Burdette. Things can slip people’s minds. May we come in?”
“I suppose so—sorry, you’ve driven all the way, sure. I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee.”
* * *
—
The house was open and spacious, with honey-colored, tongue-and-groove pine walls and a peaked open-beam ceiling of the same wood. Meticulous maintenance, everything aligned at precise angles. Despite the dog battalion, now out of sight, and three cats that seemed to materialize out of nowhere before padding off, not a trace of animal odor.
My eyes traveled to the rear beyond a knotty-pine kitchen, where glass sliders offered a view of a second pen enclosed on all sides with chicken wire.
An enormous tortoise had all that space to itself.
I said, “Glenn.”
Sandra Burdette said, “You remember.” Genuinely pleased.
I said, “We saw the goats and the sheep coming in. Where’s the blind heifer?”
The smile vanished. “Unfortunately Candace left us four days ago, a sudden internal bleed. She was never a healthy girl—not just the eyes, her limbs weren’t as strong as they should’ve been. Will feels terrible. There was nothing he could do but he hates losing anyone.”
She motioned us toward the center of the living room.
Given the setting and Sandra Burdette’s clothing, you’d be forgiven expecting a western motif, but the Burdettes had opted for French Provincial: stiff brocade chairs, curvy silk couches, gilt-edged case goods, crystal vases stuffed with silk flowers.
On the walls, lots of family photos, amateur quality, including two blond boys who’d been excluded from the wedding.
The remaining space was taken up by photographs of a smiling Wilbur Burdette posing with ribbon-winning farm animals and their owners. A hand-stitched sampler read: THANKS DR. WILL. THE NEWBERRY PARK 4-H CLUB.
Sandra said, “Make yourselves comfortable.”
Not easy with the hard-pack furniture but we faked it and she headed for the kitchen, returning with a black lacquer tray. Thermal pitcher, three mugs, milk and sugar.
“How do you take your coffee?”
Milo said, “Black’s fine.”
I said, “Same here.”
“Tough guys, huh?” Sandra Burdette smiled and turned younger. Mischievous eyes hinted at the apple-cheeked, robust girl she’d once been. She whitened her coffee and dropped in two sugar cubes.
Milo smiled back. “This is great coffee, ma’am.”
“Learned from the best. My dad was a short-order cook in Omaha. Worked double shifts so I could go to college. I studied nursing—human, not critters—worked as an army RN before I met Will.”
We nodded and drank and pretended this was a social visit.
Milo was the first to speak. “Please excuse the question but has anything else come to mind?”
“About the horror?—that’s how I think of it. No, not a single thing. To be honest, I’m trying to forget.”
She set her mug down. “My assumption’s been if it has to do with anyone, and I’m not saying it does, it’s their side.”
“Is there something about them that makes you say that?”
“Logic,” she said. “I know it’s not our side, so who does that leave?” Looking away. “They’re different from us. A little more colorful.”
I said, “Did it surprise you that Garrett went for someone colorful?”
She blinked. “I suppose it did. But with kids you get used to things. You’d better or you’ll always be losing sleep and beating yourself up. Will and I have always been about independence. Respecting the kids’ individuality.”
“Makes sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” she said. “Trust me, it’s the only way.” Her eyelids lowered. “Kids are a challenge.”
I said, “We didn’t get a good feel for Amanda.”
“In what way?”