*
Thousand Oaks wasn’t just an hour’s drive from LA, it was also a world away. For a start, whoever named the place couldn’t count. There were far more than a thousand of the trees. It was an oasis of rolling hills, close to both beaches and mountains, without quite the scalding heat of the deserts and the valleys. There were wide boulevards and an absence of high-rises. It was LA’s wet dream, but not all the Angelinos voiced approval.
‘What’s with all the space and white people?’ Salgado complained as they hit downtown. ‘And the sky. How can they have so much sky? And it’s far too quiet.’
‘Fourth safest city in America,’ she reminded him.
‘This ain’t a proper city. And if it is, it’s the fourth dullest. We’d be out of a job in a month. Give me bangers and drive-bys any day of the week.’
‘Yeah? Careful what you wish for, Salgado. I get the feeling we’re going to have all the bad shit we can handle.’
They both fell silent for a while at that, both tasting the truth of it.
Brossard was just a couple of minutes north of Thousand Oaks Boulevard, pretty one and two-storey properties, many with lawns and yards that would cost a film star’s divorce in the city.
‘This is some pricey real estate for a schoolteacher, ain’t it?’ Salgado questioned.
‘Looks that way. We’re not talking LA prices, but some of these got to be three quarters of a million for sure.’
It turned out the answer was in the address. The half added to the number indicated not the impressive, well-tended house facing the street but a much more modest garden building to the rear. It was nice enough, but so tightly squeezed in between its neighbours that you had to wonder if they realised it was there.
O’Neill knocked on the door with Salgado standing a few feet behind her. They had no reason to think of the ex-wife as a suspect and were better off not frightening her into silence. Anyway, despite what they knew and feared about Garland, this was still a death notification and there was policy to work by.
The woman who opened the door was a little over five feet tall with long auburn hair pulled behind her and seemingly held in place by the spectacles on top of her head. In her mid-fifties, she was slim in a sleeveless hippie dress of summer colours. She smiled as brightly as her dress.
‘Hi. How can I help you?’
‘Ms Ziegler? I’m Detective O’Neill from the Los Angeles Police Department. This is my partner, Detective Salgado. May we come in?’
The smile faded like a setting sun. ‘Um, sure, of course. Please, follow me.’
She led them into a small, busy room that screamed love, peace and happiness. A huge mandala tapestry stretched across one wall while the others were a patch-work of prints, dreamcatchers and Hindu symbols, all held together by strings of lights. A calico cat was curled up in an armchair, one black eye opening to appraise them while the ginger eye still slept.
The woman scooped the cat up into her arms and took its place on the chair, cradling it on her lap while offering the two-seater sofa to the detectives. They opted to stand and that did nothing for her peace of mind.
‘Ms Ziegler, we—’
‘Marianne. Please. It’s Marianne.’
‘I’m afraid we’re here with some bad news, Marianne. It’s about your ex-husband, Ethan Garland.’
Whatever Marianne had been expecting, it hadn’t been that. She seemed puzzled, as if not sure what would constitute bad news. She leaned forward, smothering the cat with her body.
‘Ethan? Why would you . . .’
‘You’re listed as his next of kin.’
‘I am? Why would he . . . That man. Still, I guess there’s no one else. His mother has been dead since he was young, his father too. Ethan has cousins in Nevada but he hasn’t had contact with them for years. But still, he says it’s me?’
The significance of it finally dawned on her. ‘So, wait. Why are you here?’
‘I’m sorry, Marianne,’ O’Neill continued. ‘I have to tell you that Ethan died at his home in Los Feliz. He suffered what seems to have been a heart attack.’
They watched her closely, seeing her eyes follow the words as if she were reading a music score, the resulting thoughts peppering her forehead.
‘Oh.’
It was all she could manage. A single syllable of surprise. She sat in uncertain silence, looking from one cop to the other, thinking of a response.
‘I loved him enough to marry him once but that seems a long time ago now. I just –’ she looked at them apologetically – ‘I just don’t know how I’m supposed to feel right now. I need to feel, I should feel, but I don’t know what it should be.’
‘There’s no rules,’ O’Neill reassured her. ‘No should or shouldn’ts. I take it things didn’t end well with Mr Garland?’
‘You could say that. You could say it didn’t end well at all.’
There was no mistaking the anger. It might have been dulled by shock or sentiment but both detectives could hear it loud and clear. Before they could question that, Marianne sat taller in her chair, the cat stirring as her grasp tightened.
‘Wait. You’re detectives, right? I don’t understand. All I know of police work is what I see on TV, but I thought it would be uniformed officers who did this. You said Ethan died from a heart attack.’
Her eyes narrowed further and her voice sharpened. ‘What has he done?’
Salgado and O’Neill liked the sound of that. Liked the sound of there being more.
‘Why do you say that, Marianne? You think it’s likely he’d done something? Is that the kind of person Ethan was?’
She held Salgado’s gaze for an age, a debate erupting behind her eyes.
‘Yes. Yes, it is the kind of person he was.’
Her voice tripped over its own guilt, stumbling over the bad taste it left in her mouth. Marianne didn’t like talking bad about the dead. Even Ethan Garland.
‘Is this why you’re here? Not to tell me but to question me? I’m not Ethan’s next of kin, I can’t be after this length of time. Detectives, what has he done?’
The cops exchanged glances, a silent discussion on how much to say. Salgado settled it.
‘We’re not yet sure he’s done anything. We do have reason to think something else might have happened but we’re not in a position to discuss that right now.’
She stared again. Harder. Longer.
‘What do you want to know?’
They breathed out. ‘Tell us about Ethan. How did you meet him, what was he like, why did the marriage break down?’ O’Neill paused. ‘Tell us what we need to know, Marianne.’
She blinked back tears and swallowed hard, composing herself. And she begun.
She’d spent years dating other kinds of guys, got promised the moon and got let down time after time after time. Ethan had been different and that’s what she’d liked about him. He had a quiet kind of confidence: sure of himself, but not a braggard. It was like he knew who he was and was okay with it.
They’d met in a diner where they both went for breakfast. It was weeks before they nodded at each other and another before they smiled and said hello. A week later, she asked if she could sit beside him and they chatted most days after that. She had to do all the running and liked that Ethan didn’t just want to drag her into the sack.