Sooner or Later (33 page)

“I was in the area, looking at some properties. I’m told it’s a good investment and that the market will undoubtedly be going up. But what about you?” Daringly, he put his hand on her arm. The smooth warmth of her flesh sent shock waves through him, tightening his belly, but he had himself under control. “I’m so sorry.” He lifted his shoulders, expressing his futility. “Mere words are not enough. There is no way to console you for what you must have gone through.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it, Mr. Jensen. I’m trying to get back to work, get on with living….” Her voice trailed off as she remembered their last meeting, when he’d suggested buying the house after Miss Lottie was gone. She surely hoped he wasn’t going to bring that subject up now.

Buck was too clever for that. “I’m glad to hear you’ll be opening the cafe again. I always find that work is the best antidote. If I’m in the area, I’ll stop by and have dinner.”

Ellie’s sandwich was ready. She took the box and smiled goodbye. “Sure, that’ll be good,” she said, edging past him.

When she looked back from the door, he was watching her. She hurried back across the street to her car. He hadn’t said a single wrong word, but there was just something about him … maybe Maya was right and he really was a creep.

Back home, she stood at the kitchen counter, slowly chewing her sandwich. It was very good, but her mind
wasn’t on it. Instead, she was thinking about sitting on the porch at the ranch, sipping wine and watching the sunset, and the scent of night-blooming jasmine and roses, and fresh clean air.

Sighing, she cleared away the half-eaten sandwich, fixed herself a cup of wild-berry tea, and carried it upstairs to the bedroom. She would get into her night things, put on her comfy old robe, watch TV. And wait for Dan to call.

From his position across the street, Buck saw the upstairs lights go on, then Ellie as she opened the window and stood for a minute, looking out. She drew the curtains and disappeared from his sight. For now, he was content. Phase four was set; everything was ready. All he needed was the right opportunity.

D
AN WAS RIDING THE FRISKY MARE
, H
ONEY, WITH
Piatowsky on Paradise, and Ortega on the palomino. “Just relax,” he said, glancing sideways at his friend. “It’s a western saddle. All you have to do is sit there, grip with your thighs and let the horse do the work.”

“So how the hell d’ya keep from falling off?” Piatowsky looked deeply uncomfortable, sliding forward in the saddle as the horse walked down the hill. He didn’t get this horse-riding bit, bumping up and down on some ornery critter who was bigger and stronger than he was. “Wish we’d gone fishin’ instead,” he muttered, and heard Dan laugh.

“Next time, Piatowsky.” Dan called over his shoulder.

“Yeah, sure. If you don’t have another double murder on your hands. Be just my luck.”

“It was the señor’s luck you were here,” Carlos observed solemnly. “Otherwise he might be in the jail, and leave me to run the vineyard by myself.”

“Thanks for your trust, friend,” Dan said. “Do I look like a killer to you?”

“That’s what Ellie said, but Johannsen thinks she does.” Piatowsky gave the horse a little nudge as it veered to one side, heading for a patch of grass. The mare whinnied and tossed her head spiritedly. His eyes opened wide in alarm. “Give me a fast car, any day,” he said, sweating. “At least then I know who’s in control.”

“Relax, Señor Piatowsky, this mare is a just a baby.” Ortega rode alongside to keep an eye on him. He knew the horse could sense she had an inexperienced rider on top and anything might happen.

“Forensics in New York has the knife tagged as a switchblade,” Piatowsky said. “A common type, but the blade had been honed wafer thin. Sharp as a shark’s teeth, they said. It would slice through flesh like a hot knife through butter. L.A. already confirmed that their killer used the same weapon. If the same knife was used on Miss Lottie, Johannsen’s theory goes up in smoke. And we’ll know our killer is the same man.”

Dan was keeping his fingers crossed. He was driving Piatowsky back to the airport that afternoon and planned on dropping in to see Ellie. Maybe they could have dinner together, or if she was too busy, at least a cup of coffee. He would love to be able to give her the good news that the killer was the same one as in the New York and L.A. murders, and she was off the hook as a suspect. Johannsen had already confirmed that the bruise prints on the throat had been made by a man with large, very powerful hands. They did not match Dan’s.

Piatowsky thought the ride downhill was getting even bumpier. Without warning, his saddle suddenly slid sideways and he was dangling upside down, looking at the horse’s feet and hanging on for dear life. He heard Carlos
shouting, “Whoa, whoa,” at the horse and Dan’s laughter.

“You didn’t tack her up properly,” Dan told him as he leapt to the rescue. “The saddle came loose and that should never happen.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a guy who knows what to do if the fan belt goes, but I’m a novice on a horse.” Piatowsky smoothed his thinning hair back over his scalp, thinking, worriedly, of the size of the horse’s feet, clopping neatly along close to his face. “A guy could get hurt this way.”

“You’ll try it again next time,” Dan promised, leading the horses back to the stables with Piatowsky limping along behind.

“Oh, sure.” Piatowsky felt safer dodging the bullets in the boroughs. He thought maybe it was time to go home.

He called Johannsen from the airport to check on the outcome of the knife. Listening, he gave Dan the thumbs-up. He thanked Johannsen, told him he was on his way back to New York, wished him success in his investigation and said he would catch up with him later.

“The knife’s the same, and Ellie’s free and clear. Johannsen even apologized for suspecting her, said it was all in the line of duty. I guess he was right.”

Dan hadn’t realized his heart was in his boots with anxiety until it bounded up again. He slapped Piatowsky on the shoulder, then hugged him. “Thanks, buddy,” he said.

“Anytime.”

“See you soon,” Dan called after him as he walked to the boarding gate.

“I’ll bring the kids next time, they’ll enjoy the horses,” Piatowsky called back. He was laughing as he said it.

Ellie’s Place was crowded and she was run off her feet. She supposed she should be glad to have such business, but she did wonder whether her sudden notoriety had anything to do with it. Wearily, she hoped not.

It had been difficult to sleep last night, after Dan had phoned. She’d wanted to call him back, say I’m afraid to close my eyes because of what I might see, but she knew she couldn’t. She had chosen to travel this particular path alone, and she would keep that vow. Still, she was looking out for him, and when she finally saw him, it was as if a great weight lifted from her shoulders.

His deep blue eyes inspected her anxiously as he kissed her on the cheek, and she felt that old yearning again. Dismissing it, she took him into the kitchen and introduced him to her staff. Maya was off tonight and Jake was there, helping out.

Ellie watched them inspect Dan, up and down, then up again, hoping for a sign of approval. These guys were like her family now, she thought. They were all she’d got left.

“Good to meet you, Dan.” Chan shifted the cleaver to his left hand and offered his right to Dan. “You’re keeping an eye on her, making sure she’s okay, right?”

“That’s right.” Under Chan’s grumpiness, Dan could see he was worried about Ellie. He shook hands with Terry and the kid, and Jake.

“You ever thought of doing TV?” Jake surveyed him interestedly. “Be great type-casting for the cop on one of those series.”

“Thanks but no thanks. The real thing was enough for me.”

“I recommend the shrimp tonight,” Chan called after him as they left him to his cramped kitchen. “Shrimp Chan-style, with a sorrel sauce.”

There were no tables left and Ellie sat Dan at the counter, where she could talk to him, in passing. He could see she was too busy to spend time with him, and decided to have a cup of coffee, then get back. He’d call her later, make arrangements to get together.

“I’ve got good news,” he said, when she brought him the coffee. She looked expectantly at him. “The knife was the same one used in the New York and L.A. murders. You’re no longer a suspect.”

She sagged against him in relief. “Oh thank God,” she whispered. Then, alarmed, “But what about you?”

“Me neither.”

She nodded, reassembling things in her mind now that she was a free woman without the prospect of a murder trial and jail looming over her. She knew she should have felt elated, but all she felt was exhausted.

Jake rushed past with an order and she glanced frantically around. “I’ve got to go. Thanks, Dan.”

He dropped a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

She threw him a smile over her shoulder as she hurried back to the kitchen. It would be the best part of her day—and night, she thought. Because the nights were the toughest of all.

S
HE WAS DROWNING IN DARKNESS, IT WAS ALL AROUND
her, there was no light anywhere. Then a thin ribbon of scarlet appeared. It slid slowly toward her, undulating, spreading, widening, until it touched her skin. It smelled harsh, coppery. Now it was rising, engulfing her in heat and redness, sticky …

Fighting back the bedcovers, Ellie shot upright. Her heart thudded like an express train, and her skin was sheened with sweat. The faint light from the rectangle of the window showed her familiar bedroom, the reassuring shapes of the dresser, the fireplace, the nightstand. She was safe, at home.

Shuddering, she bent her head over her clasped knees. Tears stung her eyes. “Oh, Gran,” she whispered, brokenly. “Oh Gran, I’m so sorry.”

After a few minutes, she pushed back the rumpled bedding, put on a robe and white sweat socks, then shuffled, still sniffling, downstairs to the kitchen.

Two weeks had passed since she’d come home. It was always the same. She worked as many hours a day as she
could, hoping to be exhausted enough just to crawl into bed and fall instantly asleep. The trouble was, the deep sleep lasted only a couple of hours; then regular as clockwork, she woke at 3:00 a.m. with the same dream. She was drowning in blood.

Night after night, she came downstairs and fixed herself a cup of tea with shaking hands, telling herself if only she had gotten to Journey’s End earlier; if only she had been more alert and realized they no longer used the alarm; if only she’d still lived at Journey’s End, instead of allowing two old ladies to stay there alone.
If only … if only …

Guilt washed over her and she sobbed into her mug of tea, clutching it to her chest for warmth and comfort as she grieved. Now it was too late, and try as she might, she couldn’t get the image of her grandmother’s mutilated body out of her mind.

A long time later, she went back upstairs and stood by the open window in the deep silence of the night, listening to the distant wash of the waves on the shore. It was dawn before she returned to bed and fell, still troubled, back to sleep.

Ellie was tempted, on those endless lonesome nights, to pick up the phone and call Dan, yet stubbornly she resisted. But Maya noticed her shadowed eyes and air of fatigue, and the false energy with which she attacked the day’s work.

“You’re like a whirlwind, in constant motion,” she told her. “You’re here at six in the morning and you leave after midnight. Are you getting any sleep at all?”

“Not much. But I’ll manage.”

Recognizing that determined set of the jaw, Maya knew that nothing she could say would change her mind. Ellie wasn’t about to share her feelings this time, more’s
the pity, because if ever a woman needed a shoulder to cry on right now, it was she.

Even though Ellie didn’t want to admit it, the highlight of her day was when she was home, in bed, anticipating Dan’s nightly call.

“Just checking on you,” he’d say, and she could hear the mocking little smile in his voice.

“I’m all right,” she would reply, resisting adding
“Now
I am. Now that I hear your voice.”

Dan was busy, grafting chardonnay budwood, and getting deeper in hock to the bank. He sounded cheerful about it, as though he were enjoying the whole process, and his enthusiasm made her wish she could share it with him. But the conflict was clear between them: She was city, he was country. She had long-term career plans; and so did he. She couldn’t allow herself to fall in love with him. He was her good friend, and that’s the way it would stay. Forever, she hoped.

Buck had decided against going to the cafe again; he would stay out of the picture from now on. Mr. Anonymous, that was him. But still he kept watch, following her home every night, keeping a discreet distance so she never even noticed. His plans were almost finalized. Phase four was just about ready to go. Excitement kept him in a constant state of hyperactivity, prowling his apartment, stoking up on bourbon, stalking Sunset Boulevard checking out the women. Waiting until it was late enough for Ellie to have finished at the cafe, when he had his nightly date with her, sitting in his car, watching her bedroom window until the fight finally went out.

Dan stuffed his hands in the pockets of his dusty jeans, surveying the north slope of Running Horse Hill. It had finally been planted and wire trellising erected to lift the
growing chardonnay vines higher, allowing more of that valuable ripening sunshine to get at the grapes. Satisfied, he thought that next year his vineyard would begin to look like the others around him: leafy, with clusters of golden-green grapes promising a tangy, vibrant golden wine.
Burgeoning
, in fact, he thought, smiling as he remembered the first day he’d brought Ellie out to inspect the vineyard.

He hadn’t seen her in a week, though he spoke to her every night, and he decided now was the time to take a break, before he went to Napa with Ortega to check on the cabernet budwood. The vines at UC Davis had not met Ortega’s high standards, and they were still searching for the perfect style of grape.