arrangements to be buried somewhere in L.A. I’ll come in for the burial. I can’t talk for my sister—Oh dear. Did you call her? My sister?”
“I left a message with Hollie Hanson to have her call me.”
“So you haven’t spoken to her?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll call and tell her the news. What else do you want to know?”
“If your firm did your father’s estate planning, you must know the contents of your father’s will.”
“That’s not a question, Sergeant, that’s a statement.”
Marge was quiet.
Penny said, “This is not a discussion to be had over the phone. Let’s just say there is plenty to go around. No reason for any of the principals to be covetous. I’m wealthy and my sister is even wealthier. We both were aware that it was only a matter of time before my father passed on.”
“A matter of time? Was your father in poor health?”
“Not that I know of, but he was old.” A long pause. “The fact that someone hurried his death along is troublesome. I’m wondering if a phony will isn’t about to make an appearance. Anyway that’s not your concern. Or maybe it will be your concern. I should hang up now. I have to call my sister. This is just terrible—the murder. No one deserves to have their life cut down.”
“Could I call you later?”
“How about if I have time, I’ll call you later.”
“When do you think you’ll be coming into L.A.?”
“When are you done with the autopsy?”
“Probably by tomorrow.”
“Please call me when you’re done so I can transfer the body to a funeral home. I’ll try to schedule the funeral on Monday or Tuesday.”
“Do you think your sister will come out?”
“I honestly don’t know. Graciela had even less tolerance for Dad than I do.”
“When you come out to L.A., I’d like to talk to you a little more at length.”
“No problem. I really do have to go now, Sergeant Dunn.”
“One more thing. Were you aware that your father kept a tiger in his apartment?”
“A tiger?” A pause. “Are you serious?”
“An adult female tiger. We had to extract the tiger before we could even enter the apartment.”
“Oh my God! Did the tiger attack … no, that wouldn’t be a police matter. Is my father’s body even recognizable?”
“As far as we could tell, the tiger didn’t lay a paw on your dad.”
“That’s good to know. I knew my father was giving that crazy organization some money, but I had no idea he had become so personally involved in wild animal rescue. To keep a tiger in his apartment is beyond ludicrous.”
“What wild animal organization did he support?”
“Global Earth Sanctuary. It’s in San Bernardino. I know because I sent out the checks.”
“Was he giving them a lot of money?”
“Pocket change for what he was worth: a hundred thousand a year. If you have further questions, you’d be better off calling them. I really must hang up now.”
“Thank you for your time. Be sure to call us when you’re in Los Angeles.”
“Yes, I will. Bye.”
Marge hung up the phone. The man was professional and straightforward when answering questions. For the time being, Marge put him at the bottom of the list.
“I have an appointment to tour the sanctuary tomorrow at eleven,” Decker told Marge. He was at his desk with his feet propped up; she was sitting on a chair and paging through her notes. “You can come if you’d like.”
“I’d love to come with you, but Sabrina Talbot called back. Oliver and I are meeting her in Santa Barbara tomorrow at eleven in the morning.”
“That’s fine. If I get a weird feeling about the place, we’ll do a return visit.”
“Have you looked up the organization yet?”
“Just the Web site. It began with a woman named Fern Robeson, who bought some acreage in the San Bernardino Mountains in 1975. According to the bio, she started taking in wild animals because there was no other refuge for them. One thing led to another, and now her place is a way station for all sorts of wild animals.”
“What kind of animals?”
“Anything—lions, tigers, bears, snakes, apes, chimps, crocs. She has her own private zoo.”
“Is she licensed to do that?”
“Now she is. The place was almost shut down thirty years ago. Fern persevered, went on a massive fund-raising campaign, and received over a million dollars for the cause. Eventually she managed to secure a license to house wild animals. Fern died three years ago at seventy-two. There is some money in her foundation to care for the animals, but it is quickly running out. When I talked to the acting director—a woman named Vignette Garrison—she wasn’t sure that Global Earth would last more than a year without Penny’s support. I don’t know how much he gave, but it must be sizable. Exotic animals are expensive to feed.”
“Penny’s son said the old man was giving about a hundred gees a year.”
“Well, that is sizable.”
“You know, you just can’t put all those animals together,” Marge said. “They live in different environments. The place must be large.”
“I’ll find out tomorrow.”
“Know anything about Vignette Garrison?”
“She’s thirty-seven, unmarried, and has devoted her life to saving wild animals. She worked as an assistant in a vet’s office before becoming involved with Global Earth. She’s been there for fifteen years.”
“Do you have a picture of her?”
“Not on me. I can pull up the web site.”
“Let me guess,” Marge said. “She’s tall and stick thin with stringy blond hair and no makeup.”
“I don’t know how tall she is, but she looks very thin.” Decker pushed a button and printed out her picture from the sanctuary’s web site. He gave it to Marge. “She was Fern Robeson’s protégée. She asked me about Penny’s will when I spoke to her.”
“Really,” Marge said. “That’s not only crass, but it also says to me that she has something
