Closely Akin to Murder (22 page)

“That's right,” Maisie said, nibbling at her broken
fingernail. “Besides, I didn't want to be there and catch a stray fist. We were scheduled to go home in three days, and I had an audition lined up. The last thing I needed was a black eye or swollen lip.”

I wondered why neither of them seemed to feel that Maisie was responsible for the ensuing chain of events. I would never have forgiven her if Caron had been one of the girls, but Beatrice had sent her to a real estate course, given her an office, and eventually taken her into a partnership. Clearly, she was more charitable than I.

Resolving to examine at a later time my otherwise flawless character, I said, “What happened after Oliver's body was found on the rocks?”

Maisie grimaced. “Fran got so hysterical she had to be sedated. After Trixie arrived, I was ready to fly home, but then the truth came out and I stayed on for another month to help her deal with the authorities.”

“What about the other members of the group?” I asked.

“The girl's parents couldn't afford to stay at Las Floritas, so they moved into some crummy hotel down the hill. Chad figured out real quick that he was unemployed and moved to the same place. As far as I know, he was still there when I went back to Los Angeles.”

“Did you ever see Chad again?”

“No,” she said without hesitation, “but he was smarter than me. He must have realized he'd never get any decent work in the future. Oliver Pickett was like a god in Hollywood. People in the industry weren't about to hobnob with anyone linked to his death.”

Beatrice held out her palm. “It's starting to rain. We'd better put the top up and go inside, if, of course, Claire's finished asking questions.”

In that I could think of no more to ask, I got out of the convertible. “Yes, I'm finished,” I said, then climbed into the rental car and sat for a moment, watching them struggle with the canvas top. They worked well together, perhaps from years of practice or perhaps because they were more like peas in a pod than Beatrice realized.

I was mulling over what they'd told me as I wound through the labyrinth of streets. Beatrice had been premature in her prediction of imminent rain, but she might have ended the conversation because she'd found it distressing. I certainly had, and puzzling as well.

As I drove by the model home, I saw a faint glow. It was rather late to be dusting, especially by what appeared to be candlelight. I pulled into the driveway and cut off the engine. I did not, however, go racing into the house to challenge the intruder. A nail file would not protect me from an armed escapee from maximum security.

On the other hand, I thought as my curiosity began to simmer, it was possible that Beatrice had told me a completely fabricated story about Fran's disappearance. Fran could have spent the last twenty-three years in a mental institution and taken an unsanctioned sabbatical. Beatrice, afraid I'd tattle, had told her daughter to stay in the model home until I'd slinked home.

Curiosity propelled me out of the car, but prudence kept me in the yard. I circled around to a patio in the back of the house and peered in a window. On the kitchen counter was a candle in a bowl, and beside it a messy pile of paper plates, a bottle of water, a jar of peanut butter, a plastic knife, and a loaf of bread. On the floor was a rumpled sleeping bag.

Someone as slovenly as Caron was living there, but
he or she was not visible. Beatrice would not have tolerated a vagrant, whose presence might have an adverse effect on potential sales. I'd reported seeing someone several hours earlier, and Maisie had promised to stop by on her way to the bank.

If they had given permission to a friend to camp out for a few days, why hadn't they said so? It was their property, and they were entitled to offer hospitality to whomever they chose. Only if they were harboring a fugitive would they feel compelled to lie.

Said fugitive must have seen my headlights in the driveway and taken refuge in another part of the house. Or gone out the back door, I thought as I looked over my shoulder at the irregular terrain with bottomless pockets of darkness. I had no desire to play a round of hide-and-seek in a region fraught with reptiles, rodents, and prickly plants. I had no desire to go inside the house, for that matter, but if I waited until morning, I'd find nothing except the dirty plates.

My back was beginning to tingle as if I'd brushed up against a cactus. I continued around the house, looking through windows at rooms so dark that Beatrice could have stashed dozens of corpses of mendacious buyers. Anyone wishing to avoid being seen had only to stand next to the window or in a hallway.

I felt as though I'd spent much of the last two weeks in the dark, literally as well as figuratively—rescuing Caron at the seedy hotel, breaking into the convent of San Jacinto, and now inanely circling a model home in the middle of nowhere. Vowing to keep office hours of the nine-to-five variety in the future, I went to the car and took the disposable flashlight out of my purse.

I returned to the patio, switched on the flashlight, and tested the doorknob. Had it been locked, I would
have been able to justify an expedient withdrawal. Instead, I eased open the door and listened for an indication of someone's presence. A gust of wind promptly put out the candle. I stepped across the threshold and again waited for a long, paralytic moment.

This time I heard a creak from another room. I took the plastic knife from the counter, turned off the flashlight, and crept to the doorway, across a hall, and into what was likely to be the living room. I risked using the flashlight long enough to determine that no one was there. I returned to the hall, halfway expecting to bump into the Minotaur.

“Fran?” I called softly.

The only response was a footstep behind me, followed by a forceful shove. I managed to maintain my balance (but not my composure) as I crashed into a wall. I dropped the flashlight and grabbed my shoulder, blinking furiously and willing myself not to whimper as pain shot down my arm.

A flash of lightning illuminated the spot where I'd been pushed. No one was there, and seconds later I heard the back door slam. Since I was alone, I permitted myself a small whimper, then hurried to the kitchen and out to the patio. There was no figure running across the yard and wasteland beyond it; if my assailant had chosen that direction, he or she had already found a hiding place. The sound of a car door opening caught my attention. I let go of my shoulder and ran around the corner of the house, keenly aware I'd left the key in the ignition. The door closed as I arrived at the edge of the driveway, but the overhead light had allowed me a glimpse of the assailant (and would-be car thief).

I made it to the car and jerked open the door before dear old Chico could make his getaway. I grabbed his
shirt collar and waved the knife under his nose. It was not the most gracious way to treat a sickly man who was old enough to be Caron's grandfather, but it was a long walk back to Phoenix.

“Get out of the car,” I growled.

“Or you'll slather me with peanut butter?”

“Just do it.”

He mutely obliged. “Okay, now what?”

I took the key from the ignition and dropped it in my purse. “Now we talk, but we'd better go back in the house. It's going to start raining any minute.” I pushed him in the direction of the back door. “No more nonsense, either. You came close to breaking my arm, which entitles me to try to do the same to you.”

“Is this your best Edward G. Robinson imitation?”

I poked him in the back with the knife. “I'm really getting tired of you, Chico. If you don't cooperate, I'll stuff you in the trunk of the car and deliver you to the police department. Someone will get in touch with Comandante Quiroz in Acapulco. Better yet, I'll call Jorge Farias and suggest he send one of his men to collect you.”

“Hey, I'm sorry about everything that happened down there,” he said, glancing back at me and then wincing when I poked him in the same spot. “Take it easy, okay?”

We went into the kitchen. I told him to sit on the sleeping bag, found a matchbook on the counter and relit the candle, then positioned myself by the door.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“After a rat ran across my foot in the barn, I decided the accommodations were too primitive for my taste. This is not to imply there weren't rats at Las Floritas, but we had an understanding about our respective territories.
Arizona rats are too dullwitted to get the concept.”

“What are you doing in a house owned by Fran Pickett's mother and her partner?”

“Well, this afternoon I dusted the windowsills and—”

I couldn't do a lot of damage with a plastic knife, but I was angry enough to find out exactly how much. “This is the last time I'm going to ask you to explain why you're here. I have the telephone number of the Farias Tourist Agency in my purse, and I also have a quarter, which should suffice if I call collect.”

Chico kicked off his plastic sandals, then lay back and propped his head on his hand. “I happened to meet Bea when she came to Acapulco after Pickett died. She told me if I was ever in the area to give her a call. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I felt the need to leave Mexico, and decided to accept her offer of hospitality.”

“Are you claiming that you remembered her name after thirty years?” I asked, shaking my head. “That's ridiculous.”

“I suppose it sounds that way, doesn't it?”

“So try again, and this time put a little more effort into it.” I tapped the knife on my palm, then wished I hadn't and scraped my hand on the edge of the counter.

“The day after the girls were arrested, she came over to my bungalow and—”

“You weren't staying in a bungalow. I found the guest register from that time, and none of the bungalows were occupied by two men.”

“That was ingenious of you.”

“I want facts, not flattery—and I don't want to stand here all night.”

“Okay, after Pickett's death, there was a lot of gossip among the Americans. I couldn't afford to stay at Las Floritas, but I was curious enough to go there for a drink in hopes I'd hear more about it. I was doing my best to eavesdrop on conversations at other tables when Bea showed up.”

“How did you recognize her?”

He grinned. “The bar got real quiet for a minute, then everybody started babbling about beaches and the weather. I invited her to sit with me, and we got to talking. She told me all about the divorce and how her daughter didn't get along with her husband. His name was odd enough that I wrote it down to use for a character.”

“That doesn't get you to the Tricky M thirty years later,” I said, not at all sure how much of his story to believe.

“She wrote down her address, and I hung onto it. After all, she had been married to a revered Hollywood director. You never know when a connection like that might become valuable.”

“And on the basis of one conversation in a bar, she greeted you like an old friend and invited you to sleep in the barn?”

“She's a generous woman, isn't she? When I complained about the rats, she told me I could sleep here as long as I didn't set it on fire. She had the electricity on for a while, but had it cut off to save money when she had to stop construction.”

“Did you run across any of the others in the bar at Las Floritas?”

Chico scratched his head, probably dislodging a variety of vermin. “I met that blonde actress,” he said at last. “The only role she ever played with any profundity
was in an elementary school production of
You Are What You Eat
. All the reviews described her as a particularly spirited enzyme. I thought I recognized her in a film once, but the camera wasn't exactly aimed at her face.”

I dearly hoped my blush wasn't discernible. “Anyone else?”

“I was appalled how much bus tickets cost these days,” he said. “And the rest stops were at places where the price of a plate of beans and rice was astronomical. Then I had to pay a guy to smuggle me across the border in his truck, and he had the nerve to pull a gun on me and drive away with my wallet.”

“Chico,” I said softly, “shall we go find a pay telephone?”

“I met the other girl's parents and an arrogant creep who'd been hired by Pickett to run errands and kiss ass. They took rooms at the hotel where I was staying. The mother would have been a real looker if she hadn't been so worried. She and the father spent most of their time talking to lawyers and trying to get through to the embassy in Mexico City. The creep tagged along with them.”

“Were you still there when they had the wreck?”

“A terrible tragedy,” he said blandly.

“A newspaper article said that their daughter was in the car with them, but she wasn't. Could the third person have been Chad Warmeyer?”

“From what I heard, the investigators at the scene found the charred bodies of two females and one male. Three passports were recovered, and because of either poor cooperation or incompetence no one bothered to tell the investigators that the girl was in prison.”

I sat down on the floor and let my head rest against
the door. “Did you ever see the Landonwoods talking with a young woman in the hotel?”

“I realize you're not interested in my financial situation, but it's of prime importance to me. If you could find me, then so can Jorge Farias. He's probably already heard from the bastard who took my wallet just this side of Nogales. For all I know, the guy who gave me a lift to Phoenix is on Farias's payroll. I need enough cash to get to Canada.”

I stared at him. “Do you truly know who was in the car with Margaret and Arthur Landonwood, or is this another of your lies?”

“I truly know,” he said, holding up his hand as if being sworn in as a witness. “I may have been a little less than truthful in the past, but Margaret Landonwood told me before she left that she'd persuaded a crucial witness to go with them to the American Embassy.”