“Miss, someone tried to hurt you.” Then Branco’s eyes dropped, and I realized he was focusing on Liz Carlini’s shapely legs. She was an appealing woman—not like a model or a goddess—but attractive and healthy, and in very good shape. Liz cared for her body as seriously as she did her career. Perhaps Branco was seeing the strong-willed Italian girl who had finally broken from a repressive family to succeed as a glamorous businesswoman. That was probably the kind of woman he’d pursue, someone independent, who would be a challenge to win. Not like me, who would submit to his merest whim in gratitude. But didn’t Branco see that an aggressive person might also want to dominate his angry-stallion side, perhaps even render him a gelding?
Liz caught his appraisal of her limbs and coyly changed her position to show them off even more. No wonder this police report was taking so long.
“Lieutenant,” she said, “maybe I’m making too much of it. Perhaps it was just some young boys, high on drugs or something.” I noticed a slight change in her voice, a softening of the edge, an inviting inflection. “I really should have thought twice before calling you here. I’m almost ashamed to be making such a fuss.”
But her body language was saying, Here, kitty-kitty.
“Miss Carlini,” Branco said boldly, “gunfire is not something we take lightly.” Big man protects helpless maiden. “Did you get a make on the car?”
Liz shook her head. “It all happened so fast. All I remember is a big maroon sedan.”
“Do you know anyone who owns a car like that?”
Liz thought a moment. “Not offhand,” came the breathy reply.
It was time for this little minuet to get some jazz, so I chimed in.
“What kind of car does John Lough drive?”
Branco scowled at me. “Kraychik, don’t you have something else to do, maybe change the diapers on that kid of yours?”
“He’s potty-trained, Lieutenant.”
Liz thought a moment, then gave a troubled answer. “Lieutenant, Vannos is right. My brother-in-law, John Lough, drives a large maroon sedan.”
Branco spoke into a small two-way radio clipped onto his belt. I knew the signal would be relayed through the transmitter in his car and back to the station. I heard him order an APB for John Lough’s car, which I knew was cop-talk for “all points bulletin.” Meanwhile, I asked Liz what had happened. She explained that someone had driven by her house earlier and fired numerous shots through the front windows of a seldom-used study on the side of the house. Another cop was in there now, investigating the broken window and the bullet holes in the wall.
“Liz,” I said, “how can you think it was kids on drugs?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore. Would John really do such a thing? He might have killed me.”
“Or your husband. This could have been another attempt on his life.”
When Branco’s attention was back on us, I said, “Well, Lieutenant, at least you can’t blame these gunshots on Laurett Cole.”
Except for an annoyed scowl, Branco ignored the comment.
Liz said, “Lieutenant, there is something else, though I’m not sure it’s relevant. My husband has been having some trouble with John Lough about the company too.”
“The company?” asked Branco.
Liz smiled politely—or was it coquettishly?—before she said, “My husband owns Gladys Gardner chocolates.”
“The whole company?”
Liz nodded.
Branco whistled quietly through pursed lips.
Without thinking, I blurted, “Tidy little parcel, eh?”
Branco whirled at me. “Kraychik, I want you out of here!”
“Lieutenant—”
“Now, before I have you hauled out.”
I got up and shuffled through the deep carpet and left the room. I loitered in the foyer, hoping to eavesdrop, but one of the uniformed officers shoved me toward the door. So much for that idea. I wanted to talk some more with Liz, so I decided to wait around outside until the cops left. I wandered over to Branco’s car and leaned on the front fender. The sun had warmed the metal up, and the heat penetrated my chinos pleasantly. With my fingertip I rubbed at the dull paint on the hood. A few moments of that uncovered the glossy paint hiding under the oxidized surface. So, there on the hood of Lieutenant Vito Branco’s car I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed until I’d drawn the outline of a Valentine’s heart. I retraced the design until the shape gleamed through the dull paint. I even made an arrow, and then his initials—V.B. As I was about to add the remaining initials to the valentine, Branco came out of the house.
“You still here?” he asked gruffly.
“I came to see Liz, not to bother you, Lieutenant.”
“How do you know her?”
“I do her hair.”
He grunted. “Looks like you do good work.”
I nodded and said, “Thanks.” So he had been admiring her. “I’m sorry if I got in the way though.”
“Since when do you apologize?”
“Whenever I accidentally step on someone’s toes.”
“Skip it. Sometimes an extra voice doesn’t hurt.”
That was Branco’s version of absolution. He got in the car and started it up. Through the windshield, I could see him studying my artwork on the hood of his car. The corners of his sensuous mouth curled in the tiniest smile, then he put the car in gear and backed down the driveway. Liz Carlini’s legs had put him in a good mood.
I returned to the house just as the crew of uniformed cops was leaving. Liz saw me and said, “Thanks for coming, Vannos. I was hoping you’d stay around. I could use some company.”
“After yesterday, I wasn’t sure.”
“I’m sorry about that. I’m truly sorry.”
“I was probably a little pushy myself.”
“I’ve been under so much pressure, between the business and my marriage, I seem to lash out at anything, even people who care about me and who want to help. I’m afraid I attacked the messenger along with the message. Will you forgive me, Vannos?”
“Consider it done.”
“Thank you,” she said. And with that bit of social interaction promptly and successfully executed, she went and put on her winter coat. “I’m going out to Abigail now, to tell Prentiss what’s happened here, to warn him. I’m sure he’s in danger now. I know it was John who fired those shots, but I didn’t want to tell the police that.”
“Why not?”
“Our family problems are none of their business.”
“But you could have been killed.”
“My only concern now is to warn Prentiss.”
“Why don’t you call him?”
“He won’t talk to me. He hangs up.”
“Try again. You can’t stand on ceremony if someone is trying to hurt him.”
She considered my words. “Maybe you’re right,” she said, then went to make the call. After she dialed the number I heard her talking to someone, but it was without pause, and I guessed that she was leaving a message on an answering machine. When she was finished, she returned to me and said, “He wasn’t there so I left a message. At least he knows now. I just hope I’m not too late.” Her desperation was building, as though she was about to lose the bid on an important contract. “Vannos, do you think you can come out there with me?”
I considered her question a moment, then shook my head no. “I have work to do at the shop, Liz.”
“But if you come with me, you can back up my story. Maybe Prentiss will finally believe that I care about him.”
“Liz,” I said, hoping to back out of this entanglement gracefully, “I think this is really a family matter, something for the two of you to work out. If you need an objective listener, there are professionals who can help.”
“I’m not going to pay some stranger to act like a friend. I thought you cared.”
Great, Stanley. Nice, heartless, insensitive work. It did occur to me that the real cause of Liz Carlini’s emotional state may have been the
recent visit by Lieutenant Branco. I could understand that. More than once I’d been close to hysteria after I’d spent time with him. But I usually channeled it to more positive actions, like eating half a pound of chocolate pecan fudge.
I surrendered to her apparent need. “Okay, Liz,” I said. “I’ll call the shop and explain that I’ll be delayed. Then we can head out for Abigail together.”
She nodded approvingly. “Thank you.”
There was something a little too smooth about the whole thing. I felt that I was playing a part that had been set up for me, and it bothered me. Still, I went along with it.
When I called Nicole, she took the news coolly. I could hear her making a notation in her ledger of unreturned favors. I asked facetiously, “Are you keeping track of the favors I do for others too?”
“Of course. Those count as two marks against you.”
So Liz Carlini and I set out on our trip to Abigail to warn her husband of imminent danger. There’s nothing like the honest concern of a loving spouse to patch up a conjugal squabble. Then again, if Dan Doherty or Rafik answered the door instead of her husband, would she still feel so caring?
12
WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND
DRIVING OUT TO ABIGAIL-BY-THE-SEA with Liz Carlini in her big British saloon certainly beat taking the train, both in time and in comfort. Riding in the speedy car was like being inside a soundproof bank vault. The thing probably cost the contents of one too. But it seemed the perfect vehicle for Liz Carlini to rush off dramatically and save her estranged husband from impending doom.
Once we were under way, I asked her, “How long has Prentiss been staying out at your summer place?”
Her eyes flashed toward me, then shifted back onto the road, which was good, since she was doing over seventy.
“Vannos, you might as well know the facts. Prentiss and I are having a trial separation.”
I’d already guessed as much. “So there’s more to it than just the business problems, right?”
Liz squirmed, but didn’t answer.
I pressed her. “Is it Danny?”
Liz’s face twisted in anguish, but no sound came from her. The snowy scenery whizzed by, and the only road noise was a muffled rush of air outside and a politely tempered hum from under the hood. A few minutes and many miles later, Liz regained composure from her tasteful breakdown and said, “I don’t know who to turn to.”
I gave her my best empathetic look to encourage her trust, but I couldn’t stifle that damned internal voice that went, whom, not who.
She went on. “I hate myself for suspecting anything. I know that they’ve become good friends from spending so much time together this past year, getting Le Jardin launched and all.”
“But you’re afraid it might be deeper than just friendship?”
“No, not anymore. I was wrong. I was foolish—a simpleminded, jealous fool. It was other people who made me suspicious. They seem to think that any close friendship between two men is suspect. But I know Prentiss and I know Danny. Prentiss loves me, despite our recent problems. And I’m sure his interest in Danny is more fatherly than anything else.”
I didn’t want to remind Liz that that kind of arrangement didn’t exclude hanky-panky, or even spanky.
“And Prentiss really wants children,” she added, as though to exonerate her husband from any involvement beyond the platonic. “I’m sure he sees Danny as a son.” Liz shook her head and sighed heavily, while her grip on the leather-bound steering wheel tightened and the car accelerated. “Perhaps this is all a mistake, coming out here like this. Maybe we should turn back. I’m sure Prentiss and Danny are fine. They’re probably sitting peacefully by the fire, and here I am barging in on them, looking like one of those possessive, neurotic wives who intrudes on her husband’s privacy. Oh, God, I’m a fool!”
“Liz,” I replied calmly, “it’s okay.” But I was thinking. Just slow down, girl. This buggy’s going too fast. I continued, “I know that Danny is still involved with Rafik. And I’m sure you’re right—he’s probably looking to Prentiss for stability, which is exactly what Prentiss can offer him. From what I know of Danny, he doesn’t go after straight men. I’m sure there’s nothing sexual between him and your husband.”
But the more I said, the faster the car seemed to go. Its twelve cylinders were on the verge of an impolite growl.
“Actually, Vannos, what does it matter, especially if someone is trying to hurt Prentiss? So what if he has a fling with a boy? So what if he wants to make him an heir?”
“An heir?”
Liz nodded. “Danny’s in his will now. I protested, but Prentiss wouldn’t listen. I think it’s his guilt over inheriting his mother’s fortune. Without a natural heir himself, Prentiss feels he has to give his money away.”
“It is his to do with as he pleases, Liz.”
“But it’s time for a change, not recklessness.”
Hold that thought, Liz, and ease up on your right foot. But she sped up even more as she spoke. “Sometimes I think the Kingsley pedigree is nothing more than sludge. I wanted Le Jardin to show Prentiss that everything eventually changes, even the Kingsley tradition.”
“What if you and Prentiss have a child? Wouldn’t that continue the Kingsley line?”
Liz smiled as though she knew a lovely secret. “That would certainly change things,” she said. I wondered what the secret was. Perhaps she was pregnant? It would fit in with the image of the modern woman who has everything. But from what I could see, the love between Liz and her husband was based on balance sheets, financial projections, and marketing demographics, rather than percale sheets, throbbing projections, or pornographies. Then again, some people experience their most ecstatic moments with money in mind. I had to hand it to Liz Carlini. She was a woman who worked hard to put her life in order, to control her destiny. But any fool knows that even the tiniest murder can ruin the best-laid schemes.
Suddenly we heard a quiet beeping from under the dashboard. She immediately let up on the gas, and we re-entered the sound barrier. I looked her way with alarm, and she smiled back. “A call,” she said as she picked up the car phone from the padded leather console between our seats. She obviously loved the glamor of receiving phone calls in her British touring sedan. But within seconds she slammed the phone back into its cradle. “Wrong number,” she said.
“So?”
“I still get charged for them.”
“You’re kidding.”
“They eventually credit my bill, but it’s months before it happens.”
At least the phone call had slowed us down. I asked Liz if the plans for opening Le Jardin were still on, especially since a killing during the gala celebration might be interpreted as a bad omen.
“That’s medieval thinking. You’ve got to turn adversity into advantage. I’m going to use all the publicity to help promote the business. You can’t let a little trouble with the police affect your plans.”
As we approached our destination, Liz turned off the highway and headed into the town center of Abigail. As though announcing our arrival, a delicate chime sounded from the dashboard and an amber light flashed discreetly from the instrument panel: check petrol.
Liz said, “I need gas.”
She pulled the car into the only filling station in Abigail. An old salt came up to the window and greeted her.
“Halloo, Mrs. Kingsley. Back again?”
She answered curtly, “Just fill it, Ben.”
“How’s she runnin’ now?”
“The car is fine, Ben.”
“Right,” he said and went about his work.
Liz muttered to herself, “He insists on calling me Kingsley.”
Meanwhile, I was happy to see that old-fashioned, friendly, English-speaking service was still alive in some places, especially if you were rich enough to live there.
I asked Liz casually what had been wrong with the car, wondering how a vehicle costing as much as some houses could even so much as sputter
. She explained somewhat defensively that it was just a minor adjustment and added, “These are still the most prestigious sports sedans on the road.” I guess even a high-strung thoroughbred needs a little down-home love and attention.
After filling the tank, Ben said, “Something going on at the house today, eh?”
“Why?” answered Liz.
“Ohhhh, I saw Mr. Lough was here earlier too.”
Liz suddenly looked worried. “Thanks, Ben,” she said, and quickly started the car and pulled away from the pump. Then she put the big cat through its paces, swerving up the winding road like a slalom race—a little too sportive for my sensitive tummy—to the Kingsley summer house. Finally we reached the top of the bluff, and for the second time in two days I got to admire the view of the town and the marina from high up on the hill. It was a swell place for an ocean house. But when we arrived at the homestead, we had an unpleasant surprise. The roadway in front was lined with police cruisers, flashers going, squawk boxes yapping.
“Oh, no!” Liz exclaimed. “Prentiss!”
We had a hard time getting by the two cops blocking the door. They didn’t seem to recognize Liz Carlini as Prentiss Kingsley’s wife. I’m sure that I, her fey, red-headed companion didn’t much help her credibility either. But Prentiss himself appeared at the door and solved the problem. Liz clutched him in a desperate embrace. “Oh, Prentiss, thank God you’re all right. What happened? Was it John? Did he come here too?”
Prentiss held his wife close to him and advised her quietly but firmly, “Elizabeth, don’t say anything until our attorney arrives.”
“But what happened?”
“It’s Daniel,” he said icily. “He’s dead.”
That stunned us both.
I started to say that I’d just seen him in that very house yesterday afternoon, but I stopped myself. No one needed to know that, especially the police. Once Prentiss had identified us, the police allowed us in, but they also quickly informed us that we’d be detained for questioning. Then they took the three of us into the solarium. It may sound ghoulish, but my morbid curiosity wanted to know what had happened. I casually asked the officer who accompanied us, “Where’s the body?”
Love You to Death Page 16