Sooner or Later (11 page)

Taking the table next to theirs, he ordered tea, then pretended to read a newspaper, watching and listening.

Choosing a smoked salmon sandwich on crustless brown bread, Miss Lottie took a dainty bite. “So, Ellie, what do you have to say? Why is there no man in your life? A lovely girl like you?”

Ellie sighed. This was obviously one subject her grandmother was not going to forget. “I told you, I’m too busy, Gran, I’m a working girl, six days a week, endless hours a day. It’s been like that for a year now and it’s likely to continue that way, or at least, until I make enough to open a second cafe.” She laughed, just thinking about it. “And then it’ll probably get even worse. Seven days a week and all hours that God sends.”

Miss Lottie thought Ellie looked so pretty when she laughed, so young and gay. She wished passionately that her granddaughter didn’t have to work so hard. “I was thinking,” she said, carefully selecting a scone, “perhaps we should sell Journey’s End.”

Buck’s suddenly nerveless hands dropped the newspaper.
Had the Parrishes come down in the world? What the hell had happened to all that money? It had flowed like water from an endless reservoir last he’d heard. That must be the reason they’d let him out, she couldn’t afford to keep him there anymore. Christ, what would he do now?

He poured Earl Grey tea with a shaking hand, then stuffed a sandwich into his mouth. It choked him and he took a gulp of the boiling tea, gasping, agonized. He cast an angry glare at the large noisy group at the next table; he could no longer hear the conversation.

“We’ve been over this before, and there’s no chance,” Ellie replied, serenely. “You can’t sell the house.”

“I don’t see why not. I could always go and live in one of those condos. In Beverly Hills, or somewhere,” she added vaguely. “And you could open as many restaurants as you like. You might even find time to meet a
man and get married, give me some grandchildren.” Miss Lottie smiled teasingly at her. “I could call my friends, find out how their grandsons are doing. There’s bound to be one or two still left unattached.”

“On the shelf,” Ellie said gloomily. “That’s what you think I am. Well, this should please you. I have a date tonight.”

Miss Lottie’s faded blue eyes brightened. “With a man?”

“Of course with a man.”

“So? Tell me about him. Do I know his family?”

“Probably not, but he’s a local boy. He taught me to surf when I was eight years old.”

“A
surfer?”

“Oh come on, Gran.” Ellie laughed. “Of course he’s not a surfer now. He was a cop. A homicide detective in Manhattan. Now he’s bought a winery out here. Running Horse Ranch.”

“Running Horse?” Miss Lottie sifted through the faulty computer in her head. “Never heard of it, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’ve not heard of half the stuff I used to know. Is it a big success, then?” She nibbled on her scone.

“Not yet, but I’m sure it will be. He seems a very determined man. I’d bet that whatever it takes, he’ll do it.”

“I like that about a man. Determination. But a
homicide cop?”
Miss Ellie shuddered. She watched
NYPD Blue
and knew the score. “Ellie, dear, are you sure you’re moving in the right circles? However did you meet him?”

Ellie licked the cream from the top of her scone, and Buck imagined what he would like to do to that sexy mouth; biting the cream from her lips until they bled,
red as strawberry jam. He was fascinated by every move she made, the tilt of her head, her rich glossy red hair; he could almost feel the smoothness of her bare golden arm under his predatory fingers.

Ellie said, “I smacked up his brand-new car, right here on Olive Mill Road. I’m surprised he even spoke to me after that.”

“Young people meet in such strange ways these days.” Miss Lottie shook her head, bewildered. “When I was young it was all arranged. You went to parties and dances or the theater with people you knew, or friends of people you knew. Nothing was hit-and-miss, the way it was with you and the homicide cop, literally, with the new car.”

She glanced up, surprised, as the manager hurried toward her. Behind him walked the pastry chef, bearing a pink frosted cake in the shape of a gaily wrapped package, with a single lit candle.

Everyone turned to watch as the wait staff and the chefs gathered round and sang “Happy Birthday.” Then Miss Lottie, pink-cheeked with pleasure, blew out her candle and everyone, including the other diners, applauded. After that the manager produced a bottle of champagne.

“As usual, it’s our pleasure to see you here, Miss Lottie,” the manager said, holding up his glass in a toast to her. “Because Lottie Parrish and the Biltmore are institutions, and each has been here almost as long as the other.”

Buck fought back the overwhelming urge to leap at her, there and then. He’d fix his hands round her old throat and they’d never get him off, those pearls would be embedded in her flesh for all eternity. Trembling, he summoned a waiter and ordered a double bourbon. He
gulped it down quickly, never taking his eyes off the two women.

In the past, when he was free, he took women as and when he wanted. They were never more than a commodity to him, breakable and expendable. His usual icy reaction, the way he thought, felt, everything was now in turmoil.

He could see his father,
their
father, in Ellie’s face. He saw himself as he had been two decades ago, when he was young, like her. Vital. Alive. Before they locked him away. Could it be that, making him feel this new emotion? Or was it the luminous quality of her skin, the rich tumble of hair, those remarkable eyes?

He ordered a second drink, tense as a stretched wire, watching Ellie sipping champagne, biting into the piece of cake. She touched her grandmother’s arm affectionately, her voice too low for him to hear what she was saying, as she handed Miss Lottie a beribboned gift package. The old woman’s face was alight with surprise and pleasure, exclaiming over the cream velvet robe her granddaughter had bought her.

“Too extravagant, but beautiful.” She smiled. “You spoil me, Ellie.”

“It makes a change from you spoiling me, Gran.” Ellie kissed her, and they sipped tea, chatting awhile longer.

When they finally got up to leave, Miss Lottie’s gaze lingered on Buck as she passed by. There was a puzzled little frown between her eyes as Ellie took her arm and they walked slowly from the room.

Buck saw that she held herself upright as a soldier, refusing to lean on the cane. She thanked everyone personally as she said goodbye, and there were smiles, and even a few tears, in the eyes of those who had known her the longest. He thought the manager was right, and Lot-tie
Parrish was a Montecito institution. But not for much longer.

He heaved a regretful sigh. His plans were thrown into chaos. The old woman must die. But, sooner or later, Ellie Parrish Duveen would be his.

I
T
’
S SPRING
, D
AN THOUGHT, GLOOMILY, THE TIME
“men’s minds” were supposed to “lightly turn to thoughts of love.” Was that quote from Tennyson? Someone with the right idea, anyhow. Except his thoughts were not on love, but on what he was going to do to try to salvage Running Horse Winery.

He rode the new mare, Honey, over his forty acres, stopping at the top of a slope where he could see the lay of the land. He looked round for Pancho, but the lazy hound was nowhere in sight and he guessed he’d slunk back to the stables. The sun blazed down and he slid from the horse, pulled off his T-shirt and stood, drinking in the silence.

A hawk hovered in the clear blue sky and a couple of rabbits bounced along a furrow. He thought their cute white scuts and quick movements were a dead giveaway to the hawk, poised above, ready to swoop. Maybe life on the ranch wasn’t so different from life on the streets, after all. Predators and victims, sudden violent death on a fine afternoon. God, he was missing the action, though.

He rubbed the aching scar on his chest, thinking of Piatowsky, wondering what was going on. Maybe he’d give him a call later, and a progress report. Or lack of it.

The cell phone rang and he fished it from the back pocket of his Levi’s.

“So? How’s Farmer Dan?”

He grinned. “Are you into telepathy, or what, Piatowsky? I was just thinking about you.”

“Answer the question, Cassidy. How’s it goin’?”

“Fine, fine. For a pig in a poke.”

Piatowsky whistled loudly, sending shock waves down Dan’s ear. “You mean I was right?”

“You were right. And I’m standing here, in the glorious California sunshine, admiring my withered vines. I’ll bet not a one of ’em’s any good. Probably got to replace the lot.”

“It’s gonna cost ya, huh?”

“It is. But it’s beautiful. You should just see the stables, like an old Spanish adobe. And have I got a horse for you.” Dan glanced at the big bay mare, pawing the ground nearby. “Come on out here, and you’ll be Cowboy Piatowsky before you know it.”

“The closest I ever got to riding a horse is a Harley, and they tell me the Harley is less dangerous.”

Dan laughed and Piatowsky said, “Listen, you old bastard, I miss you, out on the streets. Angela’s taking the kids to visit her mom in Maine the end of the month, thought maybe I’d get out there to see your pig in the poke. Give you a hand with some of that work, plowing and furrowing and all that country shit.”

Dan imagined his grin as he was saying it. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll probably have the house fixed up by then too.”

“The house needs fixing also?” Piatowsky’s voice cracked with laughter. “I’m buying a new sign for your ranch. A flying pig with dollar signs all over it.”

“Thanks, friend. I miss you too.”

“I’ll call, let y’know when to expect me. You sure it’s okay, though? Seriously?”

“I’m sure. And I’m sure you’re gonna love it. It’s a jewel in the rough.”

“Yeah. I’ll bet.”

“Give my best to Angela.”

“Will do. Take care out there, in the wild West. Oh by the way, remember the hooker, burned up in Times Square? Never did find out who did it. At least not yet. But no one checked out of jail with the kind of profile you mentioned. Just wanted to let you know you were wrong. Maybe it’s better you’ve become a rube, Farmer Dan.”

The phone clicked off and Dan shook his head, smiling. He looked at the beautiful curve of the hillside silhouetted against the blue sky, and listened again to the silence. Then he told himself he wouldn’t swap it for New York’s mean streets for a million bucks.

The bay mare he’d bought that morning from a horse ranch near Los Olivos, was big, seventeen hands, and nine years old. She was whinnying and tossing her head, flicking her tail restlessly. He swung himself onto her back and said, “Okay, okay, Honey, let’s get going.”

She threw her head up again and did a Utile dance, testing him. Gripping her firmly, he shortened the reins, and said, “Let’s get this straight. I’m the boss, you’re the horse. I ride, you obey. Got it?” The mare rolled her eyes, but she trotted obediently back toward the stables.

Dan breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn’t have stood it if he’d bought another dud. First the crumbling house and vineyard; then Pancho, who could wreck a place in two minutes flat and stole food like the veteran street dog he used to be; and then the mare, with a mind of her own, ready to throw him the minute he relaxed. Plus,
he’d advertised for a manager last week and so far hadn’t had a single response. He figured he wasn’t doing so good as Farmer Dan. Not good at all.

Pancho was sprawled on the shady stable patio. He lifted his head and wagged his plumed tail in a lazy greeting, then settled back down to his snooze. The roof tiles gleamed coral in the sunlight, the purple and pink petunias and geraniums tumbled colorfully from their huge clay pots, and the old Spanish-tiled fountain tinkled prettily in the center of the yard, thanks to a new pump. A couple of doves even fluttered in and out of it, taking a free bath.

Dan thought the place looked just the way it had in those sunny photographs when he’d fallen in love with it, and he had to admit even now, with all the drawbacks, it stirred his heart.

He removed the saddle and bridle, gave the mare water and oats, then went to check the pretty Appaloosa in the next stall. He’d bought this one for her looks. Dapple-gray with a creamy mane and tail, she was young, just three years old, but she also had a sparkle about her that he liked, and an easy temperament.

“How’re y’doin’, Paradise?” She came to snuffle his hand and he fished a carrot from his pocket. The horse took it from his palm, crunching noisily. “Sweet girl,” he said. “Unlike your wild new sister out there. Got to keep her under control, teach her the ropes of civilized behavior.”

He remembered Ellie accusing him of being uncivilized when she’d smacked up his car, and her kicking the Jeep’s tires. He grinned, thinking she was a bit wacky, but cute with it. No, no, he corrected himself. Definitely not cute. He hadn’t found exactly the right word yet to describe her, though beautiful had crossed his mind. Maybe not quite that, either, but whatever mysterious
quality it was, he liked it. And her. And he was looking forward to meeting her again, tonight.

Wiping the sweat from his back with the T-shirt, he grabbed a diet Coke from the small fridge he’d installed in the old tack room that he’d designated as his office, took a long, cool slug, then walked back onto the patio, and perched on the mounting block. He was contemplating his dusty boots and his lazy dog, wondering what chore to tackle next, when Pancho suddenly leapt to his feet, barking madly at the man galloping into the stable-yard on an old palomino.

A bottle of whiskey poked from the man’s jacket pocket, his denims were full of holes, and he wore a greasy red bandanna round his neck and scuffed leather cowboy boots with silver toecaps. A wide Mexican sombrero was clamped over his thick black curls and a bushy Zapata mustache almost hid his beaming grin of introduction.

Dan pushed back his baseball cap, astonished, as the palomino pawed the air in a flashy finale. “You a circus act, or what?” he demanded, grinning.