P Is for Peril

badly as soon as I said it because the look in her eyes was one of betrayal.
    "He swore he wouldn't tell Crystal. He said it would only hurt her and neither of us wanted that."
    "I didn't say he told Crystal. This was someone else."
    "Trigg."
    I said, "Yes." After all, it was her money. She was entitled to the information. My scruples, though few, are somewhat spotty as well. "What about Lloyd Muscoe? Did Dow ever talk to you about him?"
    "A bit. They disliked each other and avoided contact whenever possible. At first, it was territorial-they were like rival apes-which Crystal must have enjoyed. Later, the friction between them was more about Leila's relationship with Lloyd."
    "I heard that Dow considered Lloyd a bad influence on the girl."
    "I don't really know Lloyd so I'm reluctant to discuss the subject."
    "Oh, give it a try. I'm sure you can manage something."
    "He's common, for one thing."
    "Happily, that isn't a crime in this state or I'd be under arrest myself."
    "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. They're paying a great deal of money to send her to that private school. I don't see the point when she spends half her weekends with someone like him."
    "But Lloyd's the only father she's known. Crystal must feel it's important for Leila to maintain a relationship with him."
    "If that's her motive. Perhaps she prefers to have the time to herself. Leila's behavior goes way beyond the norm for her age. It's obvious the girl is seriously disturbed. I'm sure Lloyd resented Dow's interference. Instead of taking time with Blanche, you should have been talking to him."
    Trigg had told me Lloyd lived in the little studio behind the big yellow shingle house at the corner of Missile and Olivio. I parked out in front and made my way down the narrow driveway on foot. Shaggy hedges encroached on either side, forming walls of wet foliage that showered drops as I passed. There was a 1952 Chevrolet parked on the grass at the end of the drive. The occasional wet leaf was plastered to the hood, but aside from that it seemed clean and well cared for. The backyard was overgrown and the small wood-frame studio might have been a gardener's shed at one time. I went up two shallow wooden porch steps and rapped on the frame of the screen door.
    No one answered my knock. I took a few minutes to circle the studio, moving from window to window, peering in at the place. I could see four small rooms-living room, kitchen, two tiny bedrooms, with a bath between-all empty. I went back to the front door and opened the screen. I tried the knob. The door swung open at my touch. I turned and stared at the main residence, but no one seemed to be staring back at me. I entered the studio, my footsteps echoing against bare plaster walls.
    The rooms smelled of mildew. The floors were covered in scuffed linoleum, the pattern worn. In the first bedroom, there were coat hangers strewn about. Nothing in the closet. In the second bedroom, there was a bare twin-sized mattress on the floor, and when I opened the closet door, I spotted two bedrolls tucked out of sight to the right. The window in that bedroom had been left open a crack, a detail I hadn't noticed when I circled the place. Maybe Lloyd crept in here to sleep now and then. Anyone could ease in along the hedges to the rear of the place, gaining access to the cottage without being seen. There was nothing in the bathroom, with its claw-footed bathtub and its toilet stained with rust. In the kitchen, cabinets stood open. On the counter, I could see a take-out cup holding the dregs of some drink. Smelled like bourbon and Coke, or something equally gross. I opened all the kitchen drawers. Optimist that I am, I'm always hoping for a clue, preferably a torn scrap of paper with a forwarding address.
    I did another quick tour, which turned out to be as unenlightening as the first. I pulled the door shut behind me and struck out across the yard to the wide rear porch. The backdoor was half glass and I could see an old woman in a housedress fussing with a coven of cats. There were seven by my count: two calicoes, a black, two gray tabbies, an orange tabby, and a white long-haired Persian the size of a pug. I tapped on the window. The old woman looked up, giving me a scowl to indicate she was aware of my presence.
    She was tall and gaunt, her white hair arranged in thin braids wrapped around her head. She was apparently in the process of feeding her brood because they circled her attentively, rubbing