Nemesis by Bill Pronzini Read Free Book Online Page A

into Contra Costa County.
    First stop there: Orinda, the closest in a short string of affluent bedroom communities that stretched out east of the tunnel. Ostrander’s Nursery and Landscaping Service.
    The place wasn’t far off the freeway, in a semirural area with views of rolling, wooded hills. Modest-sized, tree-shaded; ceramic pots and other containers of flowers, plants, young trees, ornamental grasses spread out around a greenhouse with a closed-in wing on one side. Only two vehicles were parked on a small gravel lot in front: a van and a pickup, both several years old, both with the Ostrander name in a leafy design on the doors. Hot afternoon over here, temperature in the high eighties—one reason for the fact that there were no customers.
    A short distance from the lot, a slender brunette was using a spray hose to irrigate a display of small flowering plants. She turned the hose off as Runyon approached, turned on a tentative smile. Early thirties, attractive except for a network of fine lines radiating outward around her mouth and eyes—more lines than there should have been at her age.
    â€œHello. May I help you?”
    â€œI’d like to see Scott Ostrander, if he’s here.”
    â€œYes, but he’s about to go back out on a job. I’m Karen Ostrander. Is there something I can do for you?”
    â€œThanks, but I need to speak to your husband.”
    â€œWhat about?” Warily.
    â€œA private matter.”
    â€œIf you’re from the bank…”
    â€œNo, it’s nothing like that.”
    Relief flickered briefly in gray eyes. “Well, he’s in the greenhouse. You won’t keep him long?”
    â€œNot long, no.”
    The interior of the greenhouse was much cooler, moist, thick with the mingled scents of earth and growing things. A lean, sandy-haired man was loading buckets of ferns onto a wheeled cart. Dampened wood chips made up the central pathway and the ones that angled off it through the greenery, muffled Runyon’s footsteps as he approached.
    â€œMr. Ostrander?”
    The man jerked upright, blinking in the filtered light. No smile appeared on his sun-weathered features: Runyon’s suit and tie put him on guard the same as they had his wife. “Oh … yeah, that’s me. Help you?”
    â€œI’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œQuestions? What about? Nursery items, landscaping?”
    â€œNo, that’s not why I’m here—”
    â€œThe loan payments again? Look, how many times do I have to tell you people we’re trying the best we can—” He broke off because Runyon was holding up the leather case that contained the photostat of his license. Ostrander squinted at it, blinked again; the shape of his expression changed. He said in an anger-mixed-with-frustration voice, “Don’t tell me the damn bank’s hiring private detectives to hassle me now?”
    â€œI don’t work for banks, Mr. Ostrander. Or collection agencies. The reason I’m here has to do with a routine matter concerning your ex-wife.”
    â€œMy ex-wife? Verity?”
    â€œThat’s right. Verity Daniels.”
    The expression on Ostrander’s thin, mobile face changed again, turned cold, hard, bitter. “I don’t have anything to say about that woman.”
    â€œHow long has it been since you’ve seen her, spoken to her?”
    â€œNot since the divorce. If I never see her again, it’ll be too soon. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
    Runyon said, “So then you don’t know about her inheritance.”
    Ostrander had turned away, was bending to lift another bucket of ferns. The words froze him for a few seconds. When he straightened again he wore a puzzled frown. “What inheritance?”
    â€œFrom her uncle in Ohio. Six months ago.”
    â€œI didn’t even know she had an uncle.”
    â€œWealthy man.