Bones and Roses (16 page)

I sit on the cot in the holding cell, which thankfully I have all to myself, my shoulders hunched and my arms crossed over my stomach in a vain attempt to keep from shivering. Douglas Trousdale scares me even more than Stan. I can't quite put my finger on what it is about him I find so creepy. It's not just the seed of suspicion planted by Joan. I didn't trust him even when I worked at Trousdale Realty. Smarmy I can handle; it's easy to spot and easy to avoid. But he's smooth. He'll charm you into thinking you're his new best friend, then stab you in the back after he's gotten what he wanted. I don't know that he's evil enough to commit murder, but if even half of what Joan says about him is true, I have no wish to become personally acquainted with his dark side.

I don't know how much time has passed before I'm roused from a light doze by a male voice. “Ms. Ballard?” I blink and sit up straight, peering out at a trim, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and twinkly gray-green eyes, dressed in gray slacks and a yellow golf sweater over a crisp oxford shirt. “Grant Weathers,” he introduces himself. “Mr. Trousdale sent me. He thought you might need an attorney.” I'm instantly put at ease by his relaxed, confident manner.

“One question. Can you get me out of here?”

“Let's see what I can do.” He smiles as if to say
piece of cake
.

Things move swiftly after that. I'm formally questioned with Grant on hand to advise and deflect, then whisked down the hall to a conference room for the bail hearing, presided over by a judge via Skype (seems Grant has ties to the legal community here, even though his firm is based in San Francisco, and he pulled some strings to get it expedited). Bail is set at $50,000. I'm thinking I may yet have to spend the night in jail, since even a percentage of that would be a stretch and neither Ivy nor Daniel has that kind of money, when I learn that Mr. Trousdale posted bond. I don't know whether to be relieved or nervous. He spared no expense in getting me sprung. But why? What does he want in exchange? There are no free rides with a man like Douglas Trousdale.

Is he hoping to win my trust or get me alone—to where he can dump my body after he's done away with me? I'm as jittery as the bride of an arranged marriage on her wedding day when Grant and I are buzzed through to the reception area where Douglas awaits. The two men confer with each other briefly before Grant takes his leave. Finally, Douglas turns to me, almost blinding me with the glare of his piercing gaze and porcelain veneers. His charm may be false but it's not inconsiderable. “Shall we?” He escorts me out to where his Beemer is parked, his hand lightly resting against the small of my back in a gesture that's oddly familiar for someone I barely know.

He's dressed casually, if you define “casual” as the sort of leisurewear you'd expect to see on a prince of Qatar, in designer jeans, V-neck sweater in burgundy cashmere, and custom-made calfskin loafers (he has all his footwear made in Hong Kong, according to Joan), a gold Rolex on his wrist. His blue eyes, complemented by his expertly-cut silver hair, remind me of the glass tiles on the backsplash of the kitchen at the La Mar House that go so nicely with the brushed-stainless appliances, with all of the warmth.

He opens the door on the passenger side of his silver BMW 620i convertible. Another person would be on their knees thanking him, but I'm filled with trepidation instead as I sink into the cognac leather seat. He's the stranger with a pocketful of candy I was warned against as a kid.

“That went well, I think.” He turns the key in the ignition and the engine purrs to life. He sounds as pleased as if speaking of a successful open house and not an incarceration.

“Yes. Um, thank you,” I remember to add.

“You're most welcome.” He adjusts a control on the dashboard, and after a minute I'm treated to radiant heat toasting my butt in addition to the warm air blowing from the vents. “If you're still cold, you can put my coat over you.” He indicates the overcoat lying across the backseat.

“I'm fine, thanks,” I say, hugging myself to keep from shivering.

Another of the Beemer's nifty features, besides heated seats, is the built-in Bluetooth. At the touch of a button I'm listening to Bradley's voice on speakerphone. It's like sinking into a hot bath; my tension eases. He seems equally relieved, glad that I'm none the worse for wear after being locked up. The concern he's expressing suggests Ivy did some heavy spinning in telling the story, because you would have thought I was the victim and not the perpetrator. “Don't worry, you're in good hands,” he says. I don't know if he means Grant Weathers' or his father's.

“He wanted to be here, but felt it would be awkward,” Douglas informs me after he's hung up.

“Because of my boyfriend, you mean? Well, as you can see, he wouldn't have been stepping on anyone's toes,” I note bitterly. I'm sure Daniel's mad at me, and while I know he has every right—I shouldn't have led him to believe I'd be staying in last night—I'm still hurt that he didn't show. Also, he's well aware I don't trust Douglas. How could he have thrown me in the lion's den?

“Daniel was pretty … worked up. I persuaded him it would be in your best interests to sit this one out. No need to amp up the drama quotient, right?” He tips me a collegial wink, one savvy salesperson to another. I can't picture Daniel “worked up,” but even a patient man has his limits.

“Well, when you put it that way …”

He makes the turn onto Ocean. We cruise through the darkened streets of the business district where the storefronts, except the all-night drugstore, are shuttered at this hour. The heavy downpour of earlier has given way to a light drizzle. The only sounds are the hum of the engine and sizzle of tires on wet pavement. “You two will laugh about this someday when you're old and gray.”

“Tell him that. He doesn't see me living to a ripe old age. Not since I almost got plugged in a one-man turkey shoot.”

He grimaces at the reminder. “Shocking to think something like that could happen in our community. Do the police have any leads?” I study his face, but it's like looking in a one-way mirror: I can't see what's behind it.

“Not yet. They're working on it.” I make it sound like an active investigation, though with no eyewitness and not even a bullet casing recovered from the scene, it's anything but. Whoever the shooter was, he was careful to leave no trace. Careful like a man who has his boxers ironed.

“I gather it wasn't a random shooting. Any idea why you were targeted?”

“No, but I have my suspicions.” I let that sit for a moment, hanging in the air like a question mark in a comic-strip bubble. But the expression on his face is pensive rather than furtive.

“Does it have anything to do with the reason you broke into Mr. Cruikshank's place? I heard he was a person of interest in your mother's death.”

“Stan was one of the last people to see her alive.” I stick to the facts rather than voice my suspicion that my mom's death is linked to those other fatalities, which Douglas may or may not have had something to do with.

“So, what do you think happened? Another tale of misbegotten love gone wrong?”

“I don't know. That's what I'm trying to find out,” I answer cautiously. We've left the business district behind and are cruising through the tree-lined residential streets on the outskirts of town.

“Well, if there's anything I can do …”

“Thanks, you've done more than enough already.” He cuts me a startled glance at the sharp edge in my voice. I didn't mean to sound bitchy, but I'm too wiped out to keep a lid on my emotions.

But I have no wish to become a dead body dumped by the side of the road, so I'm relieved when he doesn't take offense. “I apologize if I overstepped,” he says. “It comes from being a boss.” He gives a wry chuckle. “You get in the habit of telling people what to do rather than asking.”

“No. It's just … I don't get it,” I burst out. “You pay me to look after your property, and I'm caught breaking into someone's else's? That's reason to fire me, not go all Daddy Warbucks on me.”

“Let's just say it's my way of showing my appreciation.”

“It wasn't necessary. You always give me a nice tip at Christmas.”

“Don't be so modest. You defended me against my wife's vicious accusation.”

So that's what this is about. “I didn't … I mean, I simply told the truth.”

“You could just as easily have cast doubt.”

I shift in my seat, my unease growing. What's really going on here? Is he angling to find out what I might have witnessed that I didn't tell the cops? Does he think I'm looking to get money out of him in exchange for keeping quiet? “I'm not going to lie and say I saw something I didn't. I
did
hear you arguing, though.” I throw that out there to see how he'll react, but he only sighs.

“A man can only be pushed so far.” Interesting he used the word “pushed.” A Freudian slip? I reserve judgment for the moment. I want to hear his side of it. “Regardless of what you heard or whatever she might have told you, I don't wish her any ill. I only want to get on with my life.”

“It might help if you were to call off the dogs.” I can't resist putting in my two cents.

This elicits another deep sigh. “Believe me, I'd love nothing more. It wasn't my decision to drag out the divorce. I'm not going to let her run roughshod over me, but I'm not greedy. Nor am I vindictive. She refuses to believe that, of course. She sees dark motives where there are none. And just when I thought it couldn't get any nastier …” He shakes his head, wearing a look of distress.

“It's embarrassing, to say the least,” he goes on, “not to mention potentially damaging to my career. But what pains me most is to watch someone I once cared for, the mother of my son, unravel before my eyes.” He shakes his head. “And she wonders why I was unhappy in our marriage.”

“So that's why you left? Because you thought she'd gone crazy?”

“It's not always because of another woman,” he says, responding to the skepticism in my voice. “I know what people are saying, that Tiffany was the reason for the split, but she merely happened to come along at a time when I was feeling … open to other possibilities, shall we say.”

One of which was getting in her pants
. “You and Joan must have been happy at one time.” I probe a little deeper.

“Very much so. When we were first together.” He falls silent, lost in some memory, and there's just the purring of the engine. His Beemer is like a Lippizaner stallion compared to my workhorse of an SUV; it's such a smooth ride I'm barely aware we're moving as we fly through the darkened streets. “She was quite beautiful. I was so dazzled that I couldn't see if she had the qualities I was looking for in a wife. Not that I was in the market for a wife. I was young, just out of college.”

“Why get married then?”

“I was in love. And my dad adored her. She was the daughter he never had. My mother died when I was five and he never remarried.” He reflects on this, adding, “I don't think they were very happy together, my parents. Dad could be …” He trails off, asking, “Did you know him?”

“I met him once.” My dad was picking my mom up from work that day and he'd sent me in to fetch her. She was with Leon at the time; they were going over inventory for the gift shop. “He made quite an impression. I remember thinking he looked like Jesus, or at least the way I'd imagined Jesus to look.” I picture him in my mind: a tall, striking figure with wavy golden hair to his shoulders and piercing blue eyes. He wore loose-fitting garb and thick “Jesus” sandals. What seemed god-like to me then I now know to be charisma. Leon had charisma to burn, like his son.

“It was an image he cultivated.” I hear a slight edge in his voice, but he says nothing more on the subject. Their relationship was clearly complicated. “As for Joan, I feel it's only fair to warn you, if you haven't figured it out for yourself, you're dealing with a disturbed individual.”

I squirm in my comfy, heated, leather seat. “I don't know about that. I mean, you
did
leave her for another woman, so of course she's upset. But ‘disturbed'? That's kind of harsh, don't you think?”

“She accused me of trying to kill her!” he cries.

I don't answer. I'm not convinced Joan was imagining things.

“Did you know she was seeing a psychiatrist?” he goes on.

“She and a lot of other people. That doesn't mean she's crazy.” My thoughts turn to my brother. I wonder how he's faring at the “puff.” I don't see how he could be any worse off than I am right now.

“Don't mistake me. I think psychiatry is a fine thing. But I worry it may not be enough in her case.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you saying she should be institutionalized?” It's a sore subject. In the not too distant past, before the laws were changed in the 1980s, mentally ill people like my brother were routinely locked away in institutions without their consent. They didn't even have to be mentally ill. A husband whose wife had become inconvenient, for whatever reason, had only to enlist one or two sympathetic “witnesses” to testify in court as to her “mental instability” to get her committed. The good old days, as far as Douglas is concerned. But like the seasoned salesperson he is, he's quick to change strategy at seeing that I'm not buying his pitch.

“No, of course not. I just want you to understand where I'm coming from.”

“I'm not sure I do.”

“People take sides in a divorce. And Joan can be very persuasive. I'd hate to see you get sucked in.”

“I don't believe everything I'm told. I make up my own mind.”

What I want to say is,
You don't fool me
. I can see through his ploy. He thinks that by painting Joan as a lunatic, he can avert suspicion from himself. I recall what Spence said about me being the “common denominator.” The same is true of Douglas. Based on proximity alone he was the common denominator in three seemingly unrelated deaths. He was employed at the Fontana the year Martina and Hector died and my mom went missing. And that's not all. McGee discovered, when he looked into Douglas' background, that while he was a student at UC Santa Barbara, a female classmate of his was brutally slain on campus. He wasn't named in connection to the murder—the killer was never caught—but it has me wondering: Is the man sitting next to me just another husband making excuses for trading in his old wife for a newer model … or a serial killer?