Free Except for the Bones by Collin Wilcox Page A

lettuce when the doorbell rang. He put the lettuce in a plastic bag, put the bag in the refrigerator, dried his hands. In the rear garden, having heard the doorbell, Crusher was loudly barking, demanding admittance. Whereupon, by way of greeting, the Airedale would jump up on Bernhardt’s guest—any guest. Ignoring the dog, Bernhardt called out, “Just a minute, please.” He walked to his office, where his corduroy jacket was draped over a chair. He was a tall, lean, angular man, slightly stooped. His face was unmistakably Semitic: a high-bridge, slightly beaked nose, a broad forehead, a full mouth. Like the body, the darkly pigmented face was angular, deeply lined in a pattern that suggested both reflection and sadness. The dark, perceptive eyes were also reflective, also sad. In his mid-forties, Bernhardt had thick, unruly hair that was flecked with grey. The rhythm of his movements was neither graceful nor without grace. But he moved purposefully, meaningfully. He wore a soft button-down tattersall shirt without a tie, slacks that needed pressing, and loafers that needed polishing. His corduroy jacket was creased for comfort, not style.
    He took a sheaf of files from his visitor’s chair, considered, decided to place the files atop a bookcase, precariously balanced. Then he went to the front door, drew the bolt, and greeted Carley Hanks. She was a small woman, a blue-eyed blonde with a shy smile and a soft, hesitant voice. She wore an oversize cable-knit white cotton sweater, khaki safari pants with expanding patch pockets, and scuffed running shoes. Her shoulder-length hair was loose; she wore no makeup or jewelry.
    Bernhardt was the first to speak: “So how does your mother like Santa Barbara?”
    “I don’t think she likes it much. She grew up in San Francisco, and she misses it here.” She spoke calmly, concisely. Her eyes were steady. In person, Bernhardt was deciding, she was more decisive than her telephone manner suggested.
    “Give her my very best wishes,” Bernhardt said. “She’s a good actress. Better than a lot of pros.”
    “She’s doing a little theater in Santa Barbara.” It was a grudging admission. Could it be, Bernhardt speculated, that Emily Hanks liked Santa Barbara more than her daughter was willing to acknowledge, another sad story of divorce?
    Bernhardt nodded. “Good. I’m glad to hear she’s acting.”
    “She says you write plays—that you wrote a play that was produced off-Broadway.”
    Bernhardt’s smile turned reflective, then wry. “That was a long time ago, I’m afraid.”
    “Still—Broadway.”
    “Off Broadway. There’s a big difference.” Now the wry smile twisted inward as he said, “Which is why I’m a part-time private detective.”
    “Mother says you have an interest in the Howell Theater.”
    “That’s yet another reason I moonlight. Most little theaters are supported. Not vice versa.”
    “Hmm …” Carley frowned.
    “So tell me about your friend,” Bernhardt said. “What’s her name again?” He drew a notepad closer, clicked a ballpoint pen.
    “It’s Diane Cutler. And I’m afraid that—”
    “Wait.” He raised a hand. “Before we get into that—her problem—give me a rundown on her.”
    She frowned again. “Rundown?”
    “Vital statistics. Age, marital status. What kind of work she does. Her history, in other words.”
    “Oh.” She nodded earnestly. “Okay. Well, she’s my age. Eighteen. And we grew up together. Ever since we were both five years old, we lived within two blocks of each other.”
    “Were you best friends?”
    Gravely, she nodded. “Yes. At least, we were until we were about fifteen. And then—” She drew a long, deep, heavily laden breath. “And then our parents both got divorced. It was within just a few months of each other, that they got divorced. And then—” Now her clear blue eyes went dull, clouded by regret. “Then, also just within a few months of each other, our mothers both got married again,