Silent Witness by Collin Wilcox Read Free Book Online Page A

investigator” were spoken? Or should he pose as a tourist, ostensibly sightseeing while he learned all he could before he finally confronted Dennis Price?
    It was, he knew, a pointless speculation. As always, he would improvise, making up the script as he went along.
    He checked the mirrors, made a U-turn, drove back to the entrance to the property, and drove slowly between two pillars made of fieldstone. A large bronze plaque was fixed to one of the pillars: BROOKSIDE WINERY, ESTABLISHED 1941. It was a touch of class, a claim on history. The winery’s vineyard, someone had said, was forty acres. How much had it cost, to buy a winery almost fifty years old? A million? Two million? More?
    The lane forked just ahead. A sign and arrow directed winery-bound traffic to the right fork. He let the Corolla coast to a stop at the fork. To the left, across a broad green lawn dotted with lawn furniture and croquet wickets, shades of English country living, he saw the house. It was three stories, vintage redwood and weathered cedar shingles, just as Fowler had described it. The verandahs were broad, the generous bay windows were multipaned, the massive chimneys were fieldstone. Beyond the rustic wonderment of the house he saw the sparkle of sunlight on the surface of a large swimming pool. A visitor to the house would turn left, toward a redwood-and-shingle garage and a collection of small outbuildings, then turn left again, into a circular gravel driveway that served the house. The gravel of the circular driveway was a sparkling white, enhancing the white of the lawn furniture and croquet wickets. When they played croquet, Bernhardt wondered, did the men wear white flannels and the women pleated white skirts?
    He put the car in gear, and turned right. Matching Fowler’s description, the terrain rose behind the house, so it was not until he topped a low rise that he saw the winery buildings clustered picturesquely together in a hollow between the house and the surrounding vineyards. One of the buildings—obviously the original—was made of rock, with small windows, a low shingled roof, and a wide iron-studded, wood-planked door. The other buildings, of recent vintage, were made of wood, with black asbestos roofs. Behind one of the buildings, Bernhardt saw three cylindrical stainless-steel tanks. Several trucks and cars were parked at random among the buildings. A small bungalow, white clapboard and ornamental green shutters, was set apart from the winery buildings. This, Bernhardt knew, would be the winery foreman’s house. Al Martelli.
    Another sign and another arrow directed him to visitor parking, a small gravel lot defined by large redwood logs laid directly on the ground. There was only one vehicle in the visitors’ lot, a custom painted boss four-wheel-drive pickup with four lights clamped on a big black roll-bar mounted behind the cab.
    He parked beside the pickup and switched off the Corolla’s engine. It was decision time. Improvisation time. He’d been doing investigations part time for more than three years, at first working for Herbert Dancer, then for himself. For six months, he’d been on his own. Alan Bernhardt, Private Investigations. Yet, every time out, it always came down to this: improvising as he went, catch-as-catch-can. Pick a role. Any role. For the Fowler interview, he’d chosen to play the part of the earnest amateur, seeking wisdom. But what now? Another situation, another persona. It was both the actor’s fate and the detective’s dilemma.
    To select from his actor’s bag of tricks, he must first decide on the mission. Why, precisely, was he there? Primarily, he was looking for background on Dennis Price. What kind of a man was Dennis Price? What was his reputation? To Janice Hale, Price was a fortune hunter, a gigolo, a parasite. To Fowler, Price was just another playboy, another city slicker, posing as something better.
    To his wife, in her last moments, Dennis Price might have been a