Bones and Roses (14 page)

“What is?”

“I'll be where they can't get to me.”

I let it go this time. I love my brother dearly, which means sometimes making peace with the scary dudes in trench coats who lurk in the shadows of his mind. “Yeah, and at least you got new underwear out of it. Always pays to look your best when you're getting a shot in the butt, right?”

I call Dr. Sandefur, then drive Arthur back to his place where we pack a bag and he arranges for his pet gerbil to be cared for by his next-door neighbor in his absence. An hour later he's being admitted to the “puff.” “Watch your back,” he whispers urgently in my ear as we hug good-bye.

I stop at the Gilded Lily on my way through town. Ivy is busy waiting on a customer when I walk in, an elderly henna-haired lady who's debating whether or not to purchase the antique cast-iron planter she has her eye on. “My marijuana plant would look nice in it,” she says, explaining that it's for medicinal purposes only, for her fibromyalgia. Ivy and I exchange a look.

Only in Cypress Bay.

Ivy persuades her that the planter would be a nice addition to her homegrown ganga operation. After she's paid for it, Ivy and I carry it to her station wagon which is parked out back. We wave good-bye to Farmer Jane, and I bring Ivy up-to-date on Arthur when we're alone in the shop. Business is slow this time of day, before the sun goes down on the beachgoers and dinner hour has customers trickling in from the nearby eateries. She's glad to hear my brother's getting the help he needs. She's skeptical at first when I tell her about my plan to break into Stan's cabin.

“Why, because you didn't get enough of him shooting at you?”

“If it was him. That's what I need to find out.” The witnesses who corroborated his alibi could have been covering for him, or he could have slipped away for an hour without anyone noticing. Four Chimneys Ranch covers a large area. “Maybe there's a stash of old letters, or an address book that would lead us to someone who could positively identify him as my mom's murderer.”

She looks up from sorting a stack of receipts. “There always is when it's Jessica Fletcher doing the snooping. And she doesn't usually get caught. What if one of his neighbors calls the cops?”

“Trust me, they won't even know I was there.”

“
He
will. If you take something of his.”

“I'm not going to. Except phone numbers, if he has an address book.” I hold up my phone, pretending to snap a photo with it.

She shrugs. “Well, if your mind is made up, don't let me stop you.”

I stare at her and sink down on the tufted velvet ottoman next to an Art Deco umbrella stand that holds a collection of vintage walking sticks. Suddenly I'm having doubts. “That's it? You're not going to try to talk me out of it?”

“Who me?” She resembles a gypsy fortune-teller with her raven curls spilling over her shoulders, wearing a peasant blouse and full, canary-yellow skirt, bangles on her wrists. “You must have me confused with someone else. I'm your partner-in-crime, not the friend who talks you out of stuff. God, remember what we were like in high school?” The usual teenage stuff—wild parties, boys, sneaking out at night—plus adventures only Ivy could dream up, like when we hitchhiked to a rock concert in Berkeley, Ivy pretending to be the illegitimate daughter of Keith Richards. “I can't believe we got away with it. Well, except that one time.” She grins at the memory.

She's referring to when we went skinny-dipping in her next-door neighbor's swimming pool. She'd assured me the Paulsens would be away for the entire weekend. Unfortunately they arrived home a day early, just in time to catch us bare-ass naked. I was mortified. Of course that was before embarrassing myself became a regular thing, with the worsening of my drinking problem.

“Yeah, but you're not supposed to egg me on. Aren't you worried I'll get caught?”

“You won't, not if you're with me. I'll stand watch while you go in.”

I shake my head. “Oh, no. I'm not dragging you into this.”

“You're not. I'm volunteering.”

“You don't have to do this.”

“Of course I do. Who else are you going to get?”

“Well …”

With a wave of her hand she brushes aside any remaining hesitation on my part. “When do you need me?”

“He plays poker with his buddies on Wednesday nights.” I'd gleaned this tidbit of information from Kelsey Cummings, the office manager at the ranch, who also happens to be the daughter of one of my clients. “I'm thinking the sooner the better, before he decides to skip town.”

She frowns. “Tonight? That might be a problem.” She explains she has a date with Rajeev. He's taking her out to dinner, to that new restaurant downtown that's been getting rave reviews.

“You should go,” I tell her. “He seems like a great guy, and you don't want to blow it. He could be the One.”

She appears torn, but only for the moment. “No. It's okay. I'm sure he'll understand when I tell him it's an emergency. We can always make it another night.” For her the lure of adventure trumps that of romance. Also, she's my best friend and best friends stick by each other.

I stand up and walk over to her. “You're sure about this?”

“Sure I'm sure.” She grins. “It'll be one more thing for us to reminisce about when we're old.”

If I live that long
, I think.

CHAPTER TWELVE

My last stop of the day is the Kims' sprawling split-level, over by the Paso Verde golf course, which boasts Asian-inspired touches like the curved roof that's traditionally for deflecting evil spirits and moon gate onto the outer courtyard. After doing my routine walk-through, I feed the inhabitants of the koi pond, which are the size of kittens and have the instincts of piranha—a sprinkling of fish food sends them into a frenzy—luckily without losing any fingers.

I text Daniel as I'm leaving.
Meet me 4 dinner
? He texts me right back.
On my way
. The sun is setting in a Technicolor blaze by the time I arrive at our go-to eatery, the Salty Dog. It's by the yacht harbor, which is situated at the deepest point of the bay and is a small community unto itself, populated by boat owners, permanent fixtures, and transients alike, as well as the locals and tourists who come for the lively bar scene. Happy hour is in full swing, the bars and eateries along the esplanade thronged with the mostly young, beer-and-margarita crowd. I recall when it was just that for me—happy—back when I could still exercise self-control. I can't help but look back on those days with nostalgia. If Aladdin were a recovering drunk, I know what his first wish would have been: the ability to drink like a normal person. For us sobriety is never more than bittersweet.

The Salty Dog is a local institution that's been in business since the 1960s. The decor consists mainly of strategically draped fishnets studded with starfish and glass floats. Wooden tables shellacked with marine varnish complete the time warp effect. Needless to say, it's all about the food. I find Daniel waiting at one of the picnic tables on the patio drinking a beer. He's wearing a deconstructed blazer over a collared shirt, faded jeans, and loafers: the uniform of university professors. He looks especially cute with his broad-cheeked face tinted pink from the glow of the setting sun. He breaks into a smile when he sees me, but as I draw nearer I see the worried look in his eyes.

“I had a long talk with Professor Gruen today,” he says when we're tucking into our fried seafood platters a short while later. “About you.” His eyes lock onto mine in a meaningful look.

I don't say anything. I just look at him.

“Turns out Chief Langley is a close, personal friend of his.” He names the chief of police for the CBPD. “He could get you twenty-four-hour police protection. He has only to pick up the phone.”

“And have Spence think I'm an even bigger pain in the ass than he already does? No thanks.” I shake my head and reach for another shrimp.

“What's more important, your safety or someone else's opinion of you?”

I pop the shrimp in my mouth and wipe my greasy fingers on my napkin. “Look, I appreciate the thought,” I say when I'm done chewing, “but I can't have cops following me everywhere, watching my every move. I'd feel like the First Lady with her Secret Service detail.”

“Why is that a bad thing?”

“Are you kidding? The First Lady has, like, zero privacy and she can't be seen in public without makeup much less wearing sweats. Can you see me in high heels at the supermarket?”

“I don't think the First Lady does her own grocery shopping,” he comments dryly, giving me a level look that says,
You can't wisecrack your way out of this one.

“Don't worry,” I say softly, placing a hand over his. “I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“How can you say that? You were almost killed!”

“That was different. I was caught off guard. Now I'm taking precautions.”

“Dare I ask?” He lifts a sandy eyebrow.

“If you must know, I bought a gun.” McGee helped me select one, a .38 caliber Smith and Wesson, that was suitable for the purposes of defending myself. It wouldn't do me much good in the event of another sniper attack, but if someone tries breaking into my house at night when I'm home …

If I was hoping to assuage his fears, it has the opposite effect. Daniel looks even more worried. “Leaving aside the advisability of owning a gun for the moment, do you even know how to shoot it?”

“I'm learning.” McGee is giving me lessons.

“I see.” He lapses into brooding silence.

“You said I needed protection.”

“I didn't meant that kind. I meant professionals who know what they're doing and are trained in the use of firearms.”

“Even if I had twenty-four-seven police protection, someone could still sneak up on me.” I'd seen it happen enough times on TV crime dramas. “Whoever was shooting at me, he knew what he was doing. Which suggests he was a trained professional himself.”

“And you think he's working for Douglas?” The skepticism in Daniel's voice is thicker than the crunchy coating on my batter-fried shrimp.

“I don't know, but it's a definite possibility, wouldn't you say?”

“That's funny. Because when I spoke with Douglas this morning, he seemed very concerned about you.”

“You spoke with him?” I feel a frisson of alarm.

“He was at the house, having breakfast with Bradley. I happened to run into him as I was leaving for work. He asked after you. He wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“I'll bet,” I mutter. “More like he was checking to see what security measures I was taking. You know, for when he tries again.”

Daniel makes an exasperated noise. “Tish. This has got to stop. You're spinning a web of conspiracy out of one woman's hysterical imaginings. Would you have suspected him if not for that?”

“How do we know he didn't try to kill Joan? Is it so hard to believe?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“Why, because he's charming and drives a Beemer? Not all sociopaths are misfits who had horrible childhoods.”

“May I remind you he's donated millions of dollars to charity?”

“The same is true of Bernie Madoff.”

He sighs. “In other words, it doesn't matter what I think.”

“Of course it matters. Chances are you're right and I'm wrong.” I'm determined to end the evening on a positive note. “He's probably guilty of nothing worse than being a dickwad. I'm just not convinced he's innocent, either. But I'll keep my mouth shut, I promise.”
Until I have proof
.

“Thank you.” He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses it. “And just so you know, vanilla isn't the only flavor I like.”

I'm reminded of why I fell in love with him.

After we've eaten, we stroll along the esplanade on our way to the metered parking lot by the marina where our SUVs are parked. Darkness is falling. In the harbor tall masts stand out against the twilight sky. At the bars and eateries happy hour has given way to the hard-drinking crowd, people spilling onto the sidewalk, clutching beers, and talking too loudly, smoking cigarettes.

“Why don't I stay over at your place until this whole thing blows over?” Daniel offers as we're saying our good-byes in the parking lot. “I'd sleep easier if I was there to look out for you.”

I hesitate. This places me in an awkward position. I don't want to hurt his feelings, nor do I wish for him to be privy to my extracurricular activities. “As tempting as that is, you know perfectly well you couldn't possibly keep up with three jobs if you had to make the extra trip every day.“

“You have a point,” he says with a sigh.

“I'll call at the first hint of trouble, I promise.”

I say nothing of the trouble I'm creating for myself.

Rain is falling in a steady drizzle as Ivy and I set out for Four Chimneys Ranch. I feel guilty about her cancelling her date with Mr. Bollywood. I should have insisted she keep it, but Ivy seems cool with it. Instead of evening finery she's wearing what she calls “Black Ops chic”: a dark-gray track suit with a neoprene rain jacket over it and her L.L. Bean duck boots.

When we get to the ranch, I pull in behind the darkened stables, a safe distance from the cabins. We climb out. It's quiet except for the pattering of the rain and faint sounds of horses rustling in their stalls. “Hi-ho, Silver,” murmurs Ivy when one of them whinnies.

I look at her. “Does that make me the Lone Ranger?”

“Not if it makes me Tonto.” Ivy is second banana to no one.

The air smells of damp earth and horse manure. We head down the road toward the cabins, splashing through puddles, the hoods of our waterproof jackets pulled over our heads. I'm carrying my messenger bag with the tools of my trade: flashlight, set of pocket-size screwdrivers, Swiss Army knife, and a baggie of Purina liver treats with which to distract any dogs that might mistake me for an intruder. I'm hopped up on adrenaline, heart racing and nerves humming.

The staff living quarters consists of eight, identical clapboard cabins, each painted brown with green trim, built in a semi-circle around a communal yard. Stan's is the only one that doesn't appear to be occupied at the moment; the windows are dark. My footsteps slow as we draw near. Because I'm starting to think this might be a bad idea. What if Stan isn't at his poker game and only stepped out for a short while? What if he catches us? I'm remembering the look on the Paulsens' faces when they found me and Ivy naked in their swimming pool. They were both Mormons, he a retired dentist and she a former school librarian. I think they were more embarrassed than we were. In the end they were nice about it, after Ivy apologized and promised it wouldn't happen again. Stan, on the other hand, would likely shoot first and ask questions later.

“It's not too late to turn back,” Ivy whispers as if sensing my hesitation.

“No, I'm good,” I whisper back, hoping she didn't hear the slight tremor in my voice.

“Don't worry. I've got your back.”

I reach for her hand and give it a squeeze. “Thanks.”

“You can thank me later, after I've saved your bacon.”

“Pray it doesn't come to that.”

I hear the muttering of TV sets and sounds of music played low from inside the occupied cabins. The cabins are packed so closely together you could bum a smoke from your next-door neighbor without setting foot off your porch. Hardly ideal conditions for a break-in. I'll need the stealth tactics of a ninja to pull this off. The inclement weather is working in our favor, at least. No one is likely to be stepping out for a stroll or to take in the night air from his porch.

When we get to Stan's cabin, Ivy takes up position by the door, in the shadow of the overhang, while I head for the window in front. Windows are generally the most vulnerable point of entry of any home. At the properties I manage I occasionally get locked out, due to a frozen lock or the wind having blown a door. Once because the owners changed the locks then neglected to give me the new key before I was summoned to deal with a household emergency, so I'm quite adept in such matters for someone who's never committed a home robbery. The window I'm looking at is a seventies-era aluminum-frame slider. Piece of cake. I use my screwdriver to pop the screen, then as I'm lowering it to the ground, I hear a dog whining in the cabin next door. I freeze, my heart pounding. I pray the dog's owner doesn't decide to poke his head out to investigate.

“
Tish
!” Ivy hisses.

The sound of her voice jerks me back into motion. I'm relieved to find the window unlocked; it slides open easily at my touch. Then I'm clambering through into the cabin. The interior is as I remembered it, spare to the point of Spartan: the bed neatly made with a white chenille spread and none of the usual clutter of a bachelor pad, no empties or fast food wrappers, no overflowing ashtray. No personal items, either, not so much as a framed photo. This is a man who travels light.

I conduct a quick search by flashlight but don't find a stash of old love letters like Jessica Fletcher would have, just some crumpled receipts and an unpaid bill. No address book either. The dresser drawers hold only neatly folded clothes, and the closet, more clothes on hangers, along with two pairs of cowboy boots and a pair of loafers. I have better luck with his laptop. It's outdated, antediluvian by my brother's standards, but it has what I need. I copy his Outlook address book onto the flash drive I brought with me and scroll through his browser's search history. I see a link for the White Oaks website and my pulse quickens. I click on it and up pops a map of the facility. Not exactly hard evidence, but it suggests Stan was lying when he claimed to have had no prior knowledge of where my mom was buried.
Gotcha, you son of a bitch.

Outside the rain has gone from drizzle to downpour. A clap of thunder causes me to jump and sets the dog next door howling. A face pops up at the window, peering specter-like from the hood pulled over its head, and I almost let out a scream. But it's only Ivy.

“Hurry,” she whispers. “Someone's coming!”

I hear the sound of a car engine and glance past her to see headlights in the distance. I panic. Instead of taking the easy route, through the door, I climb back out the window. I'm straddling the sill, one leg in and one out, when a pickup truck materializes out of the rainy darkness. I catch a glimpse of a cowboy-hatted figure at the wheel as it rounds the corner to the parking area. I don't have to see his face to know it's Stan. I break out in a cold sweat. My heart is hammering so hard it feels like someone performing CPR on me. If we're not gone in two seconds, we're toast.

The hem of my parka snags on a loose screw in the window frame as I'm hauling my left leg over the sill. Muttering curses, I struggle to pull it free while Ivy tugs on my sleeve, hissing, “Come
on.”

“Go!” I whisper-shriek at the sound of a truck door slamming followed by footsteps crunching over gravel. “I'll catch up with you!” I give her a kick with my free leg when she doesn't obey.

She lets out a muffled yelp. “Ow! That hurt.”