“Piles of logs. All that gloomy wood and stained glass belongs in a church, where the intent is to simultaneously impress and depress. Bill Dowd Senior made his fortune with canned peas, whatever, nailed up that heap of timber. Probably got the idea when he was buying up properties in Pasadena, South Pasadena, Altadena, Lord knows what other ’denas. That’s what they’ve all been living off. She and her brothers. None of them worked a day in their lives.”

“How many brothers?” I said.

“Two. Bill the Third and Bradley. One’s a fool and the other’s shifty. The shifty one sneaked into my yard and stole my persimmons.” Pinpoints of anger livened the milky blue eyes. “Stripped the damn tree bare. He denied it but everyone knew.”

Milo said, “How long ago was this, sir?”

“Thanksgiving of ’72. Delinquent never owned up to it but my wife and I knew it was him.”

“Why’s that?” said Milo.

“Because he’d done it before.”

“Stole from you?”

“From others. Don’t ask me the who and what, never heard the details, just general woman’s talk. They must have believed it, too. They boarded him out. Some sort of military academy.”

“Because of the persimmons?”

“No,” said Beamish, exasperated. “We never told them about the persimmons. No sense being obtrusive.”

‘What about Nora Dowd?” said Milo. “Any problems with her?”

“She’s the youngest and the most spoiled. Always had those ideas.”

“What ideas, sir?”

“Being an actress.” Beamish’s lips curled. “Running around trying to get parts in movies. I always thought her mother was the one behind all that.”

“She ever get any parts?”

“Not that I heard. Do fools actually pay to hear what she has to say at her play house?”

“Seems to be that way,” said Milo. “Did she ever marry?”

“Negative.”

“Does she live with anyone?”

“She’s got that heap of sticks all to herself.”

Milo showed him the snap of Dylan Meserve.

Beamish said, “Who’s that?”

“One of her students.”

“Looks like a delinquent, himself. Are they fornicating?”

Milo said, “What about visitors?”

Beamish snatched the picture from between Milo’s fingers. “Numbers around his neck. He’s a damned felon?”

“Misdemeanor arrest.”

Beamish said, “Nowadays, that could include homicide.”

“You don’t like Ms. Dowd.”

“Don’t have use for any of them,” said Beamish. “Those persimmons. I’m talking the Japanese variety, tart, firm, nothing like those gelatinous abominations you get in the market. When my wife was alive she loved making compote for Thanksgiving. She was looking forward to Thanksgiving. That wastrel filched every one. Stripped the tree naked.”

He returned the photo. “Never seen him but I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“What’d you think of that pet of hers?”

“What pet, sir?”

Albert Beamish laughed so hard he began coughing.

Milo said, “You okay, sir?”

Beamish slammed the door.

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 15