The Adjal of Jimmy Temple

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

On the way back to Bel Air in Sam's Toyota - compared with Wanda's driving we were moving at the speed of a rickshaw with a Denver Boot - I fished for more information about Wanda. The best Sam would offer, and in a kind of tight-lipped polite way, was that Wanda had been overwhelmed with grief since her father's death and sometimes didn't behave rationally. The understatement of the century.

But then, as though it was just too juicy to hold back, Sam went on, "And of course she has this absurd belief in time travel."

"She told you about that?"

"Not her personally, no. Mr. Kincaid would now and then sleep in that room. All too often, alas, he drank to excess and in that condition occasionally confided to me the content of his dreams, which were of traveling to the future, and that Miss Kincaid had similar dreams. I of course put no credence in such nonsense, nor do I feel any disloyalty to him revealing this. As a born-again Christian I do not approve of the occult."

I almost said that I didn't approve of it either, and I wasn't a born-again, I got it right the first time. But I doubted Sam would appreciate the humor. And while for sure I didn't buy any of the occult crap, I had no rational explanation for what I'd just experienced, and knew that if I shared this with Sam, he'd figure me as just another Kincaid nutcase. Occult or not, though, there was something I needed to explore.

"Does the name Paul Robbins mean anything?"

"He's my brother. He lives and works at the Kincaid residence in Malibu. Why do you ask?"

"Wanda spoke fondly of him."

"Yes, they always got along quite well."

"Do you and he look alike?"

I expected Sam to ask the reason for my question, but he silently pulled out a billfold and opened it and held it out to me. In one of the wallet's windows was a photo of Paul Robbins. A dead ringer - and no pun intended - for the man I'd seen on the slab in the wet room. I tried to keep my face under control to hide my shock.

"He's a healthy looking man," I said.

"Oh yes, his health is excellent. Unlike mine."

"Oh, you have a health problem?"

"As a child, I had a rheumatic heart. Now and then it gives me some concern."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said, which was all too true because I sure as hell wasn't interested in his health, and he sounded like one of those hypochondriacs who enjoyed talking your ear off about their ailments. I switched back fast to what did interest me. "When did you last see your brother?"

"Two or three days ago. Why are you asking about Paul, Mr. Temple?"

"I'm a detective. I'm doing some work for Wanda, checking on people she knows. Routine stuff," I said, and immediately wanted the words back, expecting Sam to ask me if "routine stuff" included sleeping with the client.

But all Sam said was, "I see," which bothered me because my spending the night there apparently came as no surprise to him. But then I suppose as the overseer of a funeral home and employee of the Kincaids, nothing much would surprise him.

I almost asked him again about his brother's health, if he was sure Paul was in good shape but that would open a whole can of worms, namely dreams and time travel, which Sam obviously didn't believe in any more than I did. Or rather, than I had before I saw Paul's photo. My memory of the dream now had a soundtrack, and it was Sherlock Holmes: when all explanations are exhausted, whatever remains must be the truth. Great, and very logical, but if for no other reason than my own sanity the wet room was a "truth" I didn't want to deal with. There was another one, more practical.

"Sam, can I ask you a personal question?"

He stared straight ahead through the windshield. "You can ask," he said.

"Who pays your salary?"

"Why would that interest you, sir?"

"I was wondering who you worked for," I said. "Wanda, or Mrs. Kincaid." What was really on my mind, of course, was that thousand Wanda owed me. I'd get that and wish her luck in the future and go my merry way.

Now he favored me with a bland look. "I work for the family, sir. The Kincaids are like family, always have been. Is there anything else you'd like to know?"

The polite little razor-edge in his voice told me that whatever else I wanted to know would not come from him, not even with bamboo slivers under his fingernails. "No, Sam," I said. "Nothing else."

Twenty minutes later we pulled up in front of my apartment on Roscomare Road. I thanked Sam and he drove off. I needed a shower, a shave, a clean shirt. That and a new life. I tried not to think about how short the old one might be, if what I'd seen in the wet room were true. Which of course could not be.