La Jolla Shores Murders: A Bishop Bone Mystery

By Robert Rogers

A Bury the Hatchet party in a wealthy enclave north of San Diego, California, ends with a hatchet buried in the head of the hostess. Bishop Bone takes the case at the request of ex-client, Vivian, who is actually being blackmailed. She wants Bone to solve the case before the police can link her to the dead woman.

A homeless man was seen lingering around the edges of the party, but a ring of burglars was also active in the area at the time of the hostesss death. Suspects abound. Bone goes undercover as a homeless person to find the truth, but before he can do that a second womanalso a party attendeeis found dead.

Both corpses were involved in the recently resolved, very controversial campaign to rid the childrens pool in La Jolla of seals. The victims were also substantial investors in a medical implant company founded by Vivians ex-husband. Bone soon realizes there is a lot more to this matter than murder, but by then, hes already become the next target.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Sep 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781480809697

Robert Rogers

Robert (Bob) Rogers is a retired professor of forestry at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point where he spent more than 30 years educating the next generation of forest managers. In the 1990s he and Paul Johnson developed the initial concept and outline for a project that eventually became the first edition of the Ecology and Silviculture of Oaks. Bob's areas of expertise include how soil-site relationships affect forest development and the application of quantitative methods to manage forests

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Copyright © 2014 Robert Rogers.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-0968-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0969-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014912857

Archway Publishing rev. date: 9/5/2014

CONTENTS

Acknowledgement

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Dr. Eva Abbo was most generous in her medical advice and detailed commentary.

My special thanks to Galina Oshay whose very professional musical soirees gave me the idea for this mystery.

A number of people made suggestions which I think improved the book. Included in that group are Yarka Ondricek, Nadine, Kathy Miller and especially Salli Gough who has faithfully read my books and who has faithfully given me very worthwhile suggestions and comments.

I especially want to thank Ben Ishee who is always first in line to read my books and to give me great feedback. Thanks, Ben.

A dedication would not be complete without thanks to the Lauren Rogers Museum of Art in Laurel, MS which always finds room for my books on their shelves. Likewise my thanks goes to Landrum Country in Laurel for making space for me at their memorable festivals, and to Jitters Bookstore which always finds space for my books on their display walls.

Thanks also to Suzanne, Lauren and Sabrina. They have helped in more ways than I can describe.

Lastly, I want to thank my late wife, Carolyn, for never losing faith and for always offering advice and encouragement. Without Carolyn’s support, I would have given up years ago.

I dedicate this book to all of them and for all the other people who continue to encourage me. Bill Lewis, Ed Diket and Chuck Ashford stand tall on my list of good people.

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Although there was and possibly may still be a conflict involving seals on a beach in La Jolla, the seal conflict described in this story and all characters portrayed are completely fictional.

PROLOGUE

B ishop Bone, I’ve found you, a woman said, responding to me as I answered my phone. This is Vivian Hartman. Remember me?

I did, but only barely. I’d handled her divorce when I had an office in La Jolla a little over seven years before. Vivian was a consulting psychologist with an office there.

Sure, I do, but how in the world did you get this number? I was between bites of a breakfast waffle at a nearby motel.

I called the numbers from my file, hoping you might still be around. The first one was disconnected but your…ex-wife answered the second. She said you were out here on business and gave me your new number.

My wife did keep our old number after the divorce. We were finally back on speaking terms. She was remarried and happy.

I began to tell Vivian that I was only in California temporarily, but she interrupted. What mattered, she told me, was, You are here now and she needed an escort to a bury-the-hatchet party. Winston, her ex, would be there with his new family and she absolutely could not show up alone.

You’re my last gasp.

Over the years, I’d been called many names, but never a last gasp.

Loss of face, she explained. She’d know about such things. Personally, I would have avoided any shame by not going at all but I’m not the most social person I know.

About two years ago, she said, some people who needed a life took a notion that the seals occupying the children’s pool at the Cove had to go. The pool was part of a sandy beach inlet off the Pacific near downtown La Jolla and had been given to the city for the children by one of La Jolla’s renowned. However, the seals had frolicked there for years unmolested, hence the conflict.

La Jolla is a haven for the rich and famous as well as others who’d somehow ended up with fat bottom lines or super cash flows that seemed to have no end, and occasionally no ascertainable beginning. Both aspects provide bootstrap entries into La Jolla’s elite social circles. They chair committees such as those having to deal with the seal fracas, give interviews and speeches to captive groups and most significant of all, lead fund-raising campaigns. No questions asked. Who could say no to someone with tons of money, even if, as one cynic suggested, it might have been somebody else’s at one time? Money carried its own pedigree, warts and all.

At any rate, according to the complaining group, the seals contaminated the pool with their undisciplined urges, rendering it unfit for use by children and others. Just as many people, including Vivian, wanted the cute little things to stay. The ensuing lawsuit pitted friend against friend, but after each side bled piles of money on legal fees, a compromise had been reached. Some of the seals would stay, but in a restricted environment using rope barriers.

As if to rub salt in the wounds of those who wanted the status quo, during the removal, an affectionate young female named Angel by the locals and favored by all, was accidentally dropped and died on the spot. That made the news and left bitter feelings.

Notwithstanding all that, The Christensens, Margret and Luther, decided it’d be a good idea to reunite friends and put the matter behind them with a party at their home in the Shores. Margret was on the committee to remove the seals and, according to Vivian, worked aggressively to do just that. Too damned aggressively.

I tried to say no to Vivian’s invitation, but she sounded so desperate I accepted but only after I’d cleared it with Kathy Sullivan, a very close friend in Mississippi, my home since I’d left California.

Kathy was in Santa Fe helping in her children’s gift shop while they looked after their father, her ex-husband. He’d had a heart attack. So, with time on my hands, I’d flown on to California to collect the final payment on a settlement agreement; money for the legal wringer I’d been put through by a corrupt developer and bank executive. They had dragged their feet on the last payment.

I trust you, Bishop, Kathy said. And, yes, she had been by to see her ex, but no interest had been rekindled, she added. Not even a glimmer. I appreciated her candor.

So, on that Sunday evening in mid-August, I donned my blue blazer, gray pants and light blue shirt with tie and readied myself for a party. Once more, I’d exchange small talk with the highflyers like I belonged there. They wouldn’t know a damn thing about my bottom line or that I was just as phony in my own way as they were in theirs.

I negotiated the narrow streets in the Shores to the small cottage Vivian had been granted in the divorce settlement. The sun, little more than a bright orange rim on the Pacific by then, painted the scattered clouds in the sky in shades of red tinged with plum gray. The landscaping along the way was green and lush, a reflection of Southern California’s almost year-round growing season and well-paid gardeners. La Jollans spent their free time embracing life and had little left over for such mundane tasks as digging in the earth.

Memories of the years I had lived there, the happy years before my divorce, pushed into my thoughts. In the early morning hours, healthy humans of all ages and sizes and speaking a multitude of languages, emerged from doors in expensive jogging attire, smiling at all they passed as they trotted along the streets and the beaches, some trailing dogs, some not. The very rich could hire dog walkers and, I assumed, got their exercise by proxy. Three miles of sweating seemed somehow to have become the standard for an acceptable morning run; six by those with heavy guilt instincts.

And, rolling around corners hunched over handle bars were bicyclists in odd-colored European styled costumes that looked painted on and the funny, pointed helmets they wore in case, Lord forbid, they took a tumble, a seminal legal event, damages for which someone would have to pay dearly. Notwithstanding La Jollans’ apparent wealth, no one ever seemed to have enough money, so litigation was an inherent part of the culture. The local mantra, some claimed, was to live long, look great, be rich and file lawsuits at every opportunity. All else sucked.

Nerdy intellectuals, like university professors, also lived there. It was a university town after all. To me, it seemed the college men all had unkempt beards and never combed their hair. Their letters, as in doctor of this or that, carried the weight of dollar signs in social circles. The rich and famous needed to be admired, and lettered people were perfect for the task. They were on almost everyone’s invitation list and worked attending events offering culinary delights to a fine science. And who could forget the ladies in expensive finery with their coiffed heads protected by broad-brimmed hats that graced the establishments along Girard Avenue, La Jolla’s main drag?

At the bottom of La Jolla’s layered society were the unfortunates who actually had to work for a living. Many of those lived in small, affordable condos that occupied practically every multi-use corner and most, alas, had no view to speak of. More recently, I’d been told, the Russians, sporting healthy bottom lines, had invaded. Where they would end up in the social order had yet to be determined.

It cost more to live in La Jolla, but so what? Those who called it home had more to spend. And, the doctors, lawyers and investment advisors loved them all and all had nice homes.

As Vivian’s cottage neared, I felt like I was beginning a trial with an uncertain outcome, the kind that kept me up the night before. Except for Vivian, I didn’t figure to know a single soul at the party. How in the hell was I going to make small talk with people I’d never met? I didn’t even know enough about them to make a stab at what I called party dialogue. My stomach tingled with nerves.

Over the phone she’d sounded upbeat, almost ebullient. That was a change from during her divorce. When I represented her, she projected the personality of a practicing monk. I wasn’t sure whether it was depression or just her professional demeanor. Okay when listening to patients since it gave them nothing to react to, but not worth much socially. At any rate, she seemed to have changed.

With my new client smile in place, where I show lots of teeth and act like I love everybody, I pushed the doorbell. She opened the door almost as soon as my finger came off the button.

The extra pounds she’d added during the divorce were gone. Her brown hair was cut short, three or so inches above her shoulders, and freshly done with noticeable style—lots of little wavy curls. It gave her a younger look, not pretty, but younger. I remembered it a shade lighter with gray streaks. Her wide-set brown eyes twinkled in the little light over the porch door. She embraced me for a quick hug, and added a little extra squeeze like she’d truly missed me. I knew that wasn’t the case. From what I picked up during the squeeze, I’d say her perfume came from one of the expensive shops along Girard Avenue; a pleasant scent, not overpowering.

On stage, I was! Vivian! Good to see you. The bottle of Pinot Noir I’d picked up at a discount liquor store passed from my hand to hers as if by destiny. She thanked me, nodded her head as she glanced at the label with an approving smile like she knew what she was doing. All I knew was that it was red, had a label I couldn’t read and cost about twelve dollars. She placed it on a hallway table.

My hair was without style and a lighter brown. A box of rejuvenator from Wal-Mart kept the gray streaks at bay; I’m not completely without pride. There was an over-the-counter potion I could have rubbed on the thinning patch at the back of my head, but I’ve never bothered. Also, my forehead had increased in height over the years, but unless Kathy complained, I was not going to worry about it.

Fitting her like a glove was a sleeveless, tobacco-colored dress with dark brown piping accents. It framed her arms and shoulders attractively. A matching waist-length jacket was in her hand. Suede boots with fur around the top completed the ensemble.

Expanding my toothy entry smile, I said, Divorce must agree with you. You look fabulous! I was embellishing of course. Her face had a stressed look; the kind women get from too much exercise and too many years. I gave her credit for doing her best to look younger, but Botox and diet can only do so much to erase the lines of age or the plainness her face was born to endure.

However, no man could have missed how she filled the top of her dress to just short of overflowing. I hadn’t recalled that much endowment during the divorce. In heels, she stood almost five and a half feet, shorter than me by a good six inches.

Thank you. You’ve stayed in shape. No flab like some, she said, giving me a top to bottom perusal without completing her observation—old men.

I thanked her. Like Vivian, I had hit sixty and to some that was old no matter that I didn’t feel it. Even so, I knew that regardless of my rationalizations, the people who saw me picked up on the wrinkles that marked my face and the thinning of my hair.

Still got those crystal green eyes, Bishop. Rugged face. It always got my attention. Like you never walked away from a fight.

I gave the comment a polite laugh. You don’t get past an enlistment in the Army without a few. At a bit over six feet and a few pounds under two hundred, I tended to attract attention. My face could have been called rugged, I suppose. A couple of scars, a nose that had been broken at one time, probably from a fight, the beginnings of a slight sag along the jaw line. Not too noticeable, but visible if you stood close. However, anybody standing that close wouldn’t have cared.

We had a brief exchange about a glass of wine at her place or at the Christensen’s. I proposed that we drink the free stuff since she was standing there with jacket in hand. She agreed.

Beautiful outfit, I added a complimentary wave as I opened the door to leave.

Thanks. Cost a bundle, she said without breaking stride. Including the no-sag rack. You may have noticed. She punctuated the last with a laugh and gesture panning her endowment.

CHAPTER 1

A white banner with black letters on the front door of the Christensens’ proclaimed, Enter, all ye without angst. After a quick read, Vivian opened the carved door like she lived there and breezed inside. I followed without a trace of angst but with more than a trace of thirst and hunger.

Particularly impressive was the view of the beach visible through the french doors of the living room that opened onto a patio. Though the sun had set, the residual twilight gave a sparkle to the frothy-topped waves crashing down and rolling over white sand. It was a view that sent million dollar banners flashing through the minds of Realtors.

Chairs and music stands for the entertainers sat on a wooden platform outside. Almost in shadows, a petite lady in a black, knee-length dress, fussed with the papers of her sheet music on a stand. A violin lay across the chair. Another lady, also in black, sat on a chair and cautiously plucked the strings of a guitar. A cello completed the ensemble.

The smell of barbeque coming from the kitchen where Vivian was staring reminded me that I was hungry. Other food scents wafted about as well. Salmon had to be one. I’d never been to a La Jolla party that didn’t serve fish. It was said that if fish were eaten daily, one could count on a long and prosperous life, and the fish of choice was usually salmon. If I were lucky, it’d be blackened with Cajun seasoning, a New Orleans favorite of mine.

A small, dark-haired guy with a Middle-Eastern face and wearing a white jacket, stirred something on the stove with a big wooden spoon. Whatever it was, gave out a nice curl of steam. He sipped with eyes closed and gave a smiling, nodding approval. A big guy in a white shirt and tie stood half a step behind him and watched; Luther Christensen, no doubt, taking virtual charge. I figured he topped out at about six five and weighed upward of a lean two fifty. His square face, prominent chin, and high cheekbones might qualify as marginally handsome to ladies seeking a fantasy lover.

Early arrivals wandered about admiring, talking and enjoying wine. No doubt the wine was paint-etching dry, the usual choice at such functions. Only the lowest of the low preferred anything sweet or fruity. That would be me.

Be damned! Two people I knew sat at the Christensens’ family room table, and neither looked party-friendly. Winston Hartman, Vivian’s ex, I had expected. Burl Russell, the other guy, I hadn’t. Not that it was a great surprise. He’d represented Winston in the divorce and therefore must have had contacts with the La Jolla crowd.

Both stared over the table at each other, faces close, and twisted in less-than-friendly frowns. Burl’s arm snapped outward to wag a finger in sync with words spraying from his mouth. Winston waved it away, also with words, and I thought they were about to end the peace party in ironic fashion. However, Burl smiled, sat back in his chair, and said something apparently conciliatory to Winston, who nodded sharply and also relaxed, but without a smile.

Just as well that it ended peacefully. Burl, top heavy with muscles, would likely have made short work of Winston. Plus, he was younger, about my age, maybe fifty-nine or sixty. He was born someplace in Texas and had never lost his accent. In fact, he used it with juries to let those good folks know just how damn sincere he was.

I doubted it would have come to anything physical, since lawyers aren’t inclined to flatten paying clients—if Winston was still one of those.

Burl pushed back from the table and walked away, his phony smile showing. Winston did the same, still without smile, and meandered toward the bountiful presentation of salads on the dining room sideboard.

Catching my eye was a thin, younger woman, wearing an ethnically colorful floor-length dress. I could have been convinced that she had retrieved the dress from a pile on the floor. It didn’t matter. She would add the flair of fashion to anything she wore.

However, the real attention-getter was a small tattooed cluster of red poppies on the upper part of her left arm. She was obviously proud of it, since she wore a dress that let it show. Her hair was light brown with blond streaks and lay in long, free-flowing strands over her shoulders, like she’d come out of the shower and let her hair dry in place; beachy waves, Kathy called them. Probably in her thirties; capturing her heart would be like trying to hold on to quicksilver.

She had watched the apparent argument, with beer in hand near the Christensens’ wet bar, conveniently located along the hall near the family room. Her face held a faint look of amusement. Melancholy though.

Burl paused as he saw her and opened his mouth to speak, but she turned away. He shrugged and continued his trek onto the patio. The woman practicing the guitar saw him and quit plucking. She greeted him with an easy smile and added a kiss on the cheek. Burl hadn’t lost his touch. He always had a good-looking woman by his side. He touched her arm with a look, and urged her toward the buffet table in the dining room.

The lady fussing with the violin sheet music also quit and walked with a quick pace into the living room. Seeing me, she smiled broadly, but that faded when she saw Vivian.

So, probably not Margret. A hostess always smiled at her guests. Nevertheless, she picked up a glass of wine from a living room table and eased toward us.

Well, Vivian. I assume this is your latest stud, the woman said as she drew close. Her voice almost reached the level of shrill, enough to be a distraction.

Not a friend, either.

Vivian turned to face her.

Stud, huh? So, Vivian didn’t fold her tent after the divorce and fade into the cold shadows of discarded wives.

I nodded with a look of satisfaction lest she think I was offended. I wasn’t even flattered. Nobody had ever confused me with a stud. Kathy liked me, and that was all that mattered. As far as she was concerned, I had animal magnetism. She might have been putting me on, but I never cared. I liked that she said it. And, she didn’t mind if I drank cheap white Zinfandel at dinner.

Vivian took half a step toward the woman and said softly, "At least one of us can smile in the mornings, dear. She stepped back and told me, Bishop, this is Cindi Shapiro. The poor thing got stuck with Winston, my ex."

Ah, the other woman. Vivian had mentioned her name, but I’d forgotten until then.

Actually, voice notwithstanding, Cindi was a relatively nice-looking woman with enough creamy bounce at the top of her dress to be competitive in her age group which, I guessed, was the early sixties. Her shoulder-length, brown hair, showed the hand of a good stylist.

Bishop Bone, I said, memorializing the introduction by softly grasping her hand for an instant. The Mississippi greeting would have been a hug. Her hand was as cold as her response that she was glad to meet me. A friend of her enemy was her enemy.

Cindi gave Vivian the look of a pissed off cat about to attack. Instead of attacking, however, she said, "By the way, dear, his masculinity is alive and well. I’m smiling when I fall asleep at night and when I get up in the mornings."

Women lie just like men, I thought. I didn’t see old Winston straying too far from the side of the bed he crawled in on, but maybe she read humorous books and at least went to sleep with a smile. Couldn’t say about the mornings, unless the smell of fresh coffee got her going.

Without changing her expression, Vivian said, Be careful with leftovers, they’re never as good warmed up, but I suppose you must know that by now. I’d learn later that after two failed marriages, Cindi had chosen to live in sin with Winston.

Don’t be envious, Vivian. It shows weakness. But, you must know that by now. Vivian was a consulting psychologist after all.

Before Vivian could reply, Cindi looked at me and pointed to the young woman in the colorful ethnics. She had assembled a salad from the offerings and was searching for a place to sit.

That’s my daughter. Marsha, Cindi said.

Was that a dig at Vivian? She and Winston never had children.

Marsha must have heard because she turned toward us with a nod and paused as if to take stock. Her narrow face had a kind of pouty, don’t even-think-about-it look, more daring than pretty, but pretty as well. That plus her don’t-give-a-damn ethnic attire and the suggestive way she stood with her legs spread, drove some men mad thinking about it. And, her breasts, unharnessed from what I could see when she turned, showed just enough outward thrust to confirm that she was a desirable woman.

An A cup, I decided about her size. It was a man’s prerogative to assess female assets.

Her absolutely penetrating, blue eyes met mine. I think they staggered my thinking process for a second. And, the look came with a devastating smile. No trace of melancholy in that. No doubt she’d broken a few hearts in her day. I smiled back.

Vivian raised her arm and opened her mouth to say something but Marsha turned away. Her arm fell with what I perceived as a disappointed sigh.

Cindi gave me a polite nod and left to join her daughter.

Having survived the encounter, I was ready for food, but before I could put that in motion, a woman in black made her entrance from the bedroom area in a tight-fitting, floor-length, black evening dress. Her long dark hair was tied behind her head. Although acceptable on a thirty-year old, the dark hair clashed with a face that had seen some years and had the lines to show for it. No Botox for her.

Margret. Vivian introduced us. We did the smile thing and exchanged mumbled platitudes. Mine, about how impressed I was by her community accomplishments. My compliment drew a nodding smile. Although I’d never met her, her name was in most issues of the La Jolla Light, the local newspaper.

She hasn’t kept faith with La Jolla’s jogging covenant. On second thought, it wasn’t so much that she needed to lose pounds as it was the dress she wore. I’d have picked a looser dress with a little more slack around the tighter curves.

As she and Vivian exchanged some meaningless gossip of the day, it struck me that Margret was blessed with innocent charm. That conflicted with a couple of stories I’d read when I lived in La Jolla. She ruled her committees with an iron gavel and got things done. And I had to say, considering her role in getting the seals out of the children’s pool, she still did. I’d met people like that over the years and had learned to be wary of them.

After Margret moved on, I whispered to Vivian that food might be in order. A growling stomach was the clue. She agreed, but people she knew walked in and that put a stop to that plan. I’d forage for drinks while she greeted them. She’d take white wine.

At the bar, I spoke to my old adversary, Burl Russell, who’d just poured glasses of red for himself and the guitar player who kept her dark, dreamy eyes on him. She looked stunning in her black outfit. She and Burl were about the same height, on the short side. She’s probably late forties. No,early fifties.

Be damned, he said with a glad hand and smile. Let me see. Bishop Bone, I think. Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age. You retired, didn’t you? With a nervous swipe, he brushed at an errant strand of hair on his forehead. To no avail. It flopped right back.

His hair was an unruly as ever and on the dark side. I’d seen him toward the end of a lengthy trial when it was a hell of a lot lighter. He used to say that he had the kind of hair that didn’t respond well to combs, so he just let it grow in whatever directions it took a notion to grow. At one time he’d worn it in a ponytail. The ladies liked it; gave him a kind of wild, untamed look.

I didn’t bore him with details of my life in Mississippi; just gave it a general comment. With help from a friend, I’d resumed consulting with banks on their problem loans.

This is Tracey Mandell, he said, introducing me to the woman beside him. She’s an artist. Just had an exhibition in Balboa Park. Wonderful reviews.

She smiled politely.

I hadn’t heard of her, but tried to give the impression that I had. Wonderfully creative and expressive. A lawyer’s response. Why tell the truth when a lie did the job better? Thankfully she didn’t ask for specifics. Just thanked me with a polite smile.

Burl and I possibly had the briefest exchange in history between lawyers, and wished we had more time but he had to talk to somebody about something. He didn’t like me a bit and I felt the same way about him.

He had been married with children at one time. Cost him something to get rid of them. Since then, he’d been satisfied with anyone old enough to drink and