Secrets to the Grave Read Free Page B

“They were estranged. She never spoke of them.”
    “Do you know where she was from?”
    “The East Coast, I think. From a good family, I’m sure.”
    “Mr. Zahn—”
    “Call me Zander, please. Alex-zander . I’ve always gone by Zander. That’s what people call me. Please call me that.”
    “All right. Zander. I’m Vince. This is Tony,” he said, hooking a thumb in the direction of Mendez. “You already know Bill.”
    “Vince and Tony,” Zahn murmured, wringing his hands. “Vince and Tony.”
    “Do you know if Ms. Fordham was having trouble with anyone?” Mendez asked. “Had anyone been bothering her lately? Was she afraid of anyone?”
    “Marissa was never afraid. She didn’t believe in fear. She embraced life. Every day. She had the most courageous spirit I’ve ever known.”
    When he spoke of his deceased friend Zahn’s face took on a beatific, rapturous glow, as if he had seen an angel.
    “Do you know of anyone who might have posed a threat to her?” Mendez asked.
    “Detractors of her art,” Zahn said. “Detractors of her art threatened her creativity.”
    “I meant more of a physical threat,” Mendez corrected himself.
    Points for patience on that one, Vince thought. Zahn couldn’t seem to give a straight answer. The guy was socially off, his manner of speaking peculiar and often repetitive. He didn’t like to make eye contact, but once he made it, he went into a stare. A fascinating study if they hadn’t needed answers to jump-start a murder investigation.
    Zahn looked away. “No,” he said, but Vince thought he didn’t mean it.
    “Marissa was an artist?” Vince asked.
    “Oh, yes. You didn’t know her? She was quite well-known. I’m surprised you didn’t know of her.”
    “I’m new to the area,” Vince explained.
    Zahn nodded. “Quite well-known. She was.”
    “What do you do for a living, Zander?”
    He seemed to think about his answer before saying, “I’m an artist as well. My life is my art.”
    “You like the early morning light too,” Vince said, smiling like an old friend.
    “Yes. I also meditate. I meditate very early. And then I come to see Marissa and Haley. We drink mimosas. Not Haley, of course,” he hastened to add. “Marissa is an excellent mother.”
    “But this morning no mimosas,” Vince said. “Tell us your story, Zander. How you came here, what you saw along the way.”
    “My story,” Zahn said, rolling the concept around in his labyrinth mind. He liked it. “I meditated until five twenty-three and then I walked here.”
    “Where do you live?” Mendez asked.
    “Over the hill. Off Dyer Canyon Road.”
    “That’s a long walk.”
    “I enjoy walking.”
    “Did you see anything out of the ordinary as you approached the house?” Mendez asked.
    “Not at all. It was quite dark.”
    “What happened when you got here?”
    “I went to the kitchen door. It was open, as always. I called out to Marissa. There was no coffee on. I couldn’t smell the coffee, but something else ... And then I saw them.”
    Zahn stood up so abruptly they all startled.
    “I’m finished telling my story now. I can’t tell this story,” he said, agitated, rubbing his palms hard against his thighs, as if trying to wipe off something greasy. “I’ll be leaving now. I have to go. This is very disturbing. I’m so disturbed by this.”
    Vince rose slowly from his chair and put a hand out toward Zahn, as if to steady him, but very careful not to touch him.
    “It’s all right, Zander. You’ve had a terrible shock,” he said quietly. “Someone here can drive you home. We’ll talk more another time.”
    “I’m very disturbed,” Zahn said. “I would prefer to walk, thank you. Good-bye.”
    They watched him cross the yard on his way to the path he had come on. He walked very quickly, his arms straight down at his sides as if bound to him.
    “He’s disturbed,” Vince said.
    Mendez rolled his eyes. “I’ll say.”

4
    “How are you doing today,