Sooner or Later (19 page)

Dan slapped a hand to his head, like a man in pain. “Jesus, Ellie! Not again!”

“Sorry.” She poked her head out, inspecting the
damage. “Oh well, you already know my name and my insurance company. And after all, what’s a little dent between friends?”

Dan could hear her laughing as she took off.

B
UCK RECONNOITERED HIS ENEMY
’
S POSITION, CIRCLING
Hot Springs Road in the daylight hours until he was familiar with every twist and turn, every house, every horse trail. He observed the comings and goings of the neighbors, the delivery vans, the workmen; knew what time women took their children to school, what time they returned. He noted the cruising police cars and the frequency of the various private security patrols. He also knew there was no longer a security patrol at Journey’s End. And that many of the people in the neighboring houses were weekenders from L.A., and that on Saturdays it became busier, with parties and valet parking and action.

He’d acted impulsively before, not thought it out, not made his plans. This time, it would be perfect. After a week, he knew the routine, and that things were very quiet on weeknights.

After darkness had fallen, he drove up Hot Springs Road, past Journey’s End and turned into a narrow riding trail, half hidden by trees that ran behind the property.
He was doing a test run, just the way he had when he’d killed his mother.

He was wearing a black tracksuit, black Reebok Walkers and black gloves, and carried a backpack with his tools. Guided by the thin beam of a tiny flashlight, he walked along the trail until he came to a pair of tall, rusting iron gates. He shone the flashlight up until he spotted the big padlock. He sighed, although he had figured it would be locked up like a fortress. Eyeing the wall, he decided against trying to climb over. It was too high, it would be difficult and too time consuming on the way out.

However, he’d anticipated just such a problem. Taking the small bolt-cutter from the backpack, he got to work on it. It took only seconds before the chain and padlock dropped into the grass at his feet. He looked up, sweating. In the distance, he could hear dogs barking.

The gate couldn’t have been used in years and it squealed rustily as he pushed it open, slipped inside and closed it carefully behind him.

He was in a copse of birch trees. He hadn’t anticipated the all-enveloping darkness and it disoriented him, made him nervous. He stood for a minute, getting his bearings, letting his eyes adjust. He would have preferred a little light and made a mental note to check the phases of the moon.

Taking a compass from the backpack, he shone the flashlight on it. He knew the house lay due east, on a rising knoll. Threading his way carefully through the trees, he plotted his course.

A long, low building appeared out of the darkness and he skirted it cautiously until he came to a window. The thin beam of his flashlight showed a large, empty room, with deep old-fashioned pot sinks and antiquated laundry machinery.

Taking out a pad and pen, Buck made brief sketch of the terrain, noting the location of the laundry. Then he continued on his way.

He was out of the trees now and on an overgrown path leading from the old laundry toward the house. He adjusted his watch, timing himself. So far, it had taken him ten minutes. Another five and the house loomed into view, massive, solid, built to last.

He stood looking at the prize that would soon be his, contemplating that final moment of triumph when his revenge against Charlotte Parrish would be complete. He had suffered for more than twenty years, and he was only sorry that her final suffering would be so comparatively quick.

Leaving the path, he walked silently through the gardens, past the empty pool and the tennis courts, through the still immaculately kept
parterre
garden with its tiny clipped box hedges enclosing an arrangement of ornamental flower beds. Circling the big bronze dolphin fountain, he walked up the marble balustraded steps, onto the terrace. Security lights glimmered yellow from the eaves, illuminating the front of the house.

He glanced at his watch again. Twenty-two minutes. He would have to do better than that.

He was calm, collected, his heart wasn’t even pounding. Pulling the pack of Camels from his pocket, he lit one and inhaled luxuriously, then took a leisurely stroll along the terrace. There was a light on in the great hall, but the rest of the downstairs windows were dark. Lamplight also glowed behind four of the curtained upstairs windows. Miss Lottie’s, he assumed.

He was almost at the front door, when he heard the sound of the key turning in the lock. With a lightning reaction, he crushed the cigarette out with his fingers,
ran soundlessly back along the terrace, and slipped behind the bushes outside the library window.

The old Labrador lumbered out onto the terrace followed by a small gray-haired woman in a plaid bathrobe and slippers. Buck trained the night-vision binoculars on her. She had something in her hand.

“All right, you old scrounger,” he heard her say, “but this is our little secret, no telling Miss Lottie now.” She gave the dog the cookie, then patted its head affectionately. “There’s no wonder you’re fat,” she added. The dog ate the cookie, then padded down the steps into the garden. The woman followed him and then they were out of his sight.

Buck looked speculatively at the light streaming from the open door. It was a golden opportunity: He could go in, kill his enemy, have done with it. But there were too many unknowns. He could not afford to make a mistake. He had to perfect his plan, be certain. Besides, he wanted to take his time, enjoy it.

A few minutes later, Maria walked back into the sights of his binoculars and up the steps. The dog lumbered stiffly after her. It stopped and looked directly at Buck. Then it barked loudly and began to trot toward him.

Buck froze. Now, his heart was thundering. If the dog came at him, he might be forced to make a move immediately. His mind raced ahead, planning for every contingency. He could take the housekeeper first and he might still be able to surprise the old woman upstairs …

“Bruno! Come here, you silly old boy,” Maria called.

The dog turned its head. It looked at her, then back again at the bushes where Buck was hiding, barking loudly.

“Bruno, come here at once.” Maria was impatient. The dog looked uncertainly at the bushes for a second,
then it turned obediently and followed Maria into the house.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Buck heard the heavy oaken door slam, and the iron key turn in the massive old-fashioned lock that would have protected a medieval castle.

He checked the stopwatch; now he knew approximately what time Maria took the dog out, and then locked up for the night.

Lighting another cigarette, he decided to wait until the lights went out, check what time they went to bed. He felt as comfortable as if he owned the place, sauntering along the terrace, smoking.

An hour or so later, the lights were turned out upstairs. Again he made a note of the time, then ran back down the steps, skirted the gravel driveway so as to make no noise, and jogged back the way he came.

Back at the car, he checked his time again. Eighteen minutes. It was way too long, and the main problem was those damn trees. He would need to come here in daylight and plot his route through the copse. He needed to get his time down to seven minutes or less, to run the mile from the house to the car.

Still, it wasn’t bad for a first try. He would do it again, tomorrow night, and the night after, and the night after that. Until he was ready.

E
LLIE WAS IN THE KITCHEN AT THE CAFE, TRYING OUT A
new recipe to pass on to Chan. She wore a white chef’s jacket and her hair was tucked away under a chef’s hat. She was in her element, cool, efficient, enjoying what she was doing.

There was something about cooking, combining creativity with the almost scientific precision necessary for a professional chef, that appealed to both sides of her personality—the fun-loving spur-of-the moment adventurer in her and the orderly, in-charge woman who knew exactly what she wanted from life and how she was going to achieve it.

With a razor-sharp cleaver and swift neat strokes, she dismembered a chicken and cut off the last wing joints. She chopped shallots, then made a
chiffonade
of spinach by removing the stalks, rolling it into a cigar shape and then finely slicing it. She did the same with fresh sorrel, then destalked watercress leaves and chervil. Throwing some butter into a cast-iron casserole, she added the shallots, the chicken and salt and pepper, then put the lid
on and let it cook slowly. Next she cooked the spinach over a high heat until it wilted, then threw in the rest of the herbs. She stirred it for a couple of minutes, then added it to the cooked chicken with a small amount of cream beaten with an egg, and stirred again until the sauce thickened. Tasting it, she added a little more salt and pepper, and inspected the result, pleased.

She had come across the recipe at a little farmhouse restaurant in Provence and with its pretty green color and light, delicious, fresh summery taste, it was exactly the kind of thing she liked to serve.

Placing a piece of chicken on each plate, she spooned the green herby sauce over it and gave one each to Chan, Terry and Maya to taste.

“What d’you think?” She stood, hands on hips, awaiting the decision.

Maya rolled her big brown eyes, scooping up the sauce inelegantly with a spoon. “This is heaven.”

“I know this recipe,” Chan said stubbornly. “It’s French farmhouse cooking.”

“And isn’t that the best?” Ellie’s eyes challenged him.

“After Chinese and Japanese, maybe.”

Terry winked at Ellie over Chan’s shoulder. “Tastes great to me, Ellie. Maybe a little more sorrel, I love that herb.”

“Me too.” She was looking at Chan again.

“It’s good,” he admitted finally. “Maybe we can do something with it. This sauce also would be good with sea bass. Or maybe crab cakes.”

“There you go!” Ellie gave him that beaming smile, pleased he’d come around.

“If it’s good enough for the French, it’s good enough for us,” Maya agreed.

Ellie washed her hands and went back to her marble board to prepare the pastry for the night’s
tarte tatin.
She had already made a
crème brülée
, and a double chocolate
daquoise.
They also served fresh berries every night, in a delicious puddle of Terry’s signature vanilla
crème anglaise
, as well as fresh-fruit sorbets. She would have loved to offer a cheeseboard, the way they did in France, with a tiny green salad, or fresh celery in a tall glass vase. To her, it seemed the perfect way to end a meal, but in these low-fat-conscious days, there weren’t sufficient customers who would order it, to make buying fresh cheeses economically viable.

Concentrating on what she was doing, she didn’t hear the phone ring.

“It’s for you, Ell.” Maya held the phone out to her.

“Ellie here?”

On the other end of the line, Dan smiled. He loved that little rising intonation, as though she expected a wonderful surprise to happen. He hoped he was a good enough surprise to warrant it. “Hi to you, Ellie Parrish Duveen.”

She stirred the caramel, the phone tucked under her chin. “You’re calling to tell me the Explorer is totaled and it’s all my fault.”

“You’re lucky, it’s just a minor graze this time. I just wondered what you were up to.”

“Oh, working, slaving away.”

He said, “I was just thinking, it’s an awful long time until next week.”

“Mmmm, can you bear to wait that long for the pleasure of my destructive company?”

“I’m not sure I can. Anyhow, I was planning on being in L.A. later today, on business. I thought I might come by and have dinner at your place. Do you take reservations for one?”

Pleased, Ellie pushed back her hair with a floury hand.
“You’ll have the best table in the house, and this time dinner’s on me.”

“I guess you’ll still be slaving?”

“’Fraid so, the unsociable hours go along with the job. But I’ll make time to have a glass of wine with you.” She thought of last night and their intimate dinner at Mollie’s.

“I can’t wait to taste the famous
tarte tatin”
he said.

“It’ll melt in your mouth, I guarantee it.” She was smiling, thinking about him here, in her cafe. In her world this time.

“Around nine, then, Ellie.”

“I’ll be waiting.” She fairly sang the words, her face glowing.

Maya looked shrewdly at her. “You look like a happy woman.”

“Who? Me?” Ellie laughed as she went back to the pastry board, deliberately not answering the question in Maya’s eyes.

“So come on, Ell, tell me, was it the rancher from the boondocks?”

Ellie nodded, busy with her pastry again. “It was Mr. Boondocks himself.”

“Well, how about that. You mean I get to meet him tonight?” Maya’s face was alight with curiosity. Ellie hadn’t been out with a man in so long, it was almost as exciting as a date of her own.

“He’ll be here at nine.” Ellie removed the caramelized sugar from the stove. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she thought that it meant she would see him exactly four hours from now. Looking determinedly away, she forbade herself to count the minutes.

“Sure you don’t want to borrow the Versace?”

Maya was laughing at her, Ellie knew. “I told him I’m
working and that he’ll be dining alone. This is not a date, Maya Morris.”

“Okay, okay, if you say so.”

Maya drifted off to check whether the tables were correctly set with flowers and cutlery, napkins and wineglasses, and Ellie glanced again at the clock on the wall. Because of experimenting with the new dish, she was running late, but there was still time to dash home and shower and change. And put on some perfume.

I
T WAS DUSK WHEN
B
UCK DROVE UP
H
OT
S
PRINGS
R
OAD
, timing his entry carefully to avoid the security patrol that serviced a neighboring home.