by Jance, J. A.
“Yes.”
“A message for you, madam,” he said politely. Removing a soft leather driving glove, he proffered the envelope through the narrow opening. “From Miss Arabella Ashcroft.”
Ali recognized the name at once. “Thank you.” She took the envelope and started to close the door, but the man stopped her.
“If you’ll forgive me, madam, I was directed to wait for an answer.”
Using her finger, Ali tore open the creamy white envelope. It was made from expensive paper stock, as was the gold-bordered note card she found inside. Written across it, in spidery, old-fashioned script was the following: Dear Alison, Please join me for tea this afternoon if at all possible. 2:30. 113 Manzanita Hills Road. Miss Arabella Ashcroft.
A summons from Miss Arabella, one of Sedona’s more formidable dowagers, was not to be taken lightly or ignored.
“Of course,” Ali said at once. “Tell her I’ll be there.”
“Would you like me to come fetch you?” the messenger asked, gesturing over his shoulder at the venerable bright yellow Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud idling in Ali’s driveway.
“Oh, no,” Ali told him. “I can get there on my own. I know the way.”
And she did, too, despite the fact that it had been twenty-five years earlier when she had last had afternoon tea with Arabella Ashcroft and her equally daunting mother, Anna Lee, at the imposing Ashcroft home on Manzanita Hills Road.
Ali’s visitor bowed slightly from the waist and backed away from the door. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll tell Miss Arabella she can expect you.” He tipped his cap once again, turned on his heel, and marched away. Once he drove out of sight, Ali closed the door. Then, with both the note card and envelope in hand, she returned to the couch lost in a haze of memories.
On a Friday afternoon two weeks before Ali had been scheduled to graduate from Cottonwood’s Mingus Mountain High School, she had bounded into her parents’ diner, Sedona’s Sugarloaf Café, for her after-school shift. All through high school she had helped out by waiting tables after school and during Christmas and summer vacations. As she tied on her apron she spotted an envelope with her name on it propped up next to the cash register. There was no stamp or return address, so obviously it had been hand delivered.
“What’s this?” she had asked Aunt Evie, her mother’s twin sister and her parents’ full partner in the restaurant venture.
“It’s still sealed, isn’t it?” Aunt Evie had asked. “How about if you open it and find out?”
Ali had opened the envelope on the spot. Inside she had found a note card very similar to the one she had received just now: “Please join my daughter and me for tea, this coming Sunday, May 21, 2:30 P.M. at our home, 113 Manzanita Hills Road, Sedona, Arizona.” The note had been signed Anna Lee Ashcroft, Arabella’s mother.
“Tea!” Ali had exclaimed in disbelief. “I’ve been invited to tea?”
Taking the note from Ali’s hand, Aunt Evie examined it and then handed it back. “That’s the way it looks,” she said.
“I’ve never been invited to tea in my life,” Ali said. “And who all is going? Are you invited?”
Aunt Evie shook her head.
“Is anyone else I know invited, then?” Ali asked. “And why would someone my age want to go to tea with a bunch of old ladies in the first place?”
“You’ll want to go if you know what’s good for you,” Aunt Evie had said severely. “But this doesn’t give us much time.”
“Time for what?” Ali had asked.
“To get down to Phoenix and find you something appropriate to wear,” Aunt Evie had answered.
Ali’s high school years had been tough ones for the owners and operators of the Sugarloaf Café. Things had been so lean during Ali’s junior year that she had turned down an invitation to the prom rather than admit she didn’t have a formal to wear and couldn’t afford to buy one.
By the end of her senior year, things were only marginally better, but she was astonished when Aunt Evie took the whole next day—a Saturday—off work. She drove Ali to Metrocenter, a shopping mall two hours away in Phoenix, where they spent the whole day at what Ali considered to be the very ritzy Goldwater’s Department Store putting together a tea-appropriate outfit. Aunt Evie had charged the whole extravagant expense—a stylish linen suit, silk blouse, and shoes—to her personal account. The loan of Aunt Evie’s fake pearls would complete the outfit.
At the time, Ali had been too naive to question her aunt’s uncharacteristic behavior. Instead she had simply accepted Aunt Evie’s kindness at face value.
The next week at school, Ali had held her breath hoping to hear that some of her classmates had also received invitations to the unprecedented Ashcroft tea, but no one had. No one mentioned it, not even Ali’s best friend, Reenie Bernard, so Ali didn’t mention it, either.
Finally, on the appointed day, Ali had left her parents and Aunt Evie hard at work at the Sugarloaf doing Sunday afternoon cleanup and had driven herself to Anna Lee Ashcroft’s Manzanita Hills place overlooking downtown Sedona. Compared to her parents humble abode out behind the restaurant, the Ashcroft home was downright palatial.
Ali had driven up the steep, blacktopped driveway and parked her mother’s Dodge in front of a glass-walled architectural miracle with a spectacular view that encompassed the whole valley. Once out of the car, Ali, unaccustomed to wearing high heels, had tottered unsteadily up the wide flagstone walkway. By the time she stepped onto the spacious front porch shaded by a curtain of bloom-laden wisteria, her knees were still knocking but she was grateful not to have tripped and fallen.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Ali rang the bell. The door was opened by a maid wearing a black-and-white uniform who led her into and through the house. The exquisite furniture, gleaming wood tables, and lush oriental rugs were marvelous to behold. She tried not to stare as she was escorted out to a screened porch overlooking an immense swimming pool. Her hostess, a frail and seemingly ancient woman confined to a wheelchair and with her legs wrapped in a shawl, waited there while another somewhat younger woman hovered watchfully in the background.
Ali was shown to a chair next to a table set with an elaborate collection of delicate cups, saucers, plates, and silver as well as an amazing collection of tiny, crustless sandwiches and sweets.
“So,” the old woman said, peering across the table at Ali through a pair of bejeweled spectacles. “I’m Mrs. Ashcroft and this is my daughter, Arabella. You must be Alison Larson. Let’s have a look at you.”
Feeling like a hapless worm being examined by some sharp-eyed, hungry robin, Ali had no choice but to endure the woman’s silent scrutiny. At last she nodded as if satisfied with Ali’s appearance. “I suppose you’ll do,” she said.
Do for what? Ali wondered.
“Your teachers all speak very highly of you,” Anna Lee said.
Ali should have been delighted to hear that, but she couldn’t help wondering why Anna Lee Ashcroft had been gossiping about her with Ali’s teachers at Mingus Mountain High. As it was, all Ali could do was nod stupidly. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“I understand you want to study journalism,” Anna Lee continued.
Ali had discussed her long-held secret ambition once or twice with Mrs. Casey, her journalism teacher, but since going to college seemed like an impossible dream at the moment, Ali was trying to think about the future in somewhat more realistic terms—like maybe going to work for the phone company.
“I may have mentioned it,” Ali managed.
“You’ve changed your mind then?” Anna Lee demanded sharply. “You’re no longer interested in journalism?”
“It’s not that,” Ali said forlornly, “it’s just…”
“Just what?”
“I still want to study journalism,” Ali said at last, “but I’ll probably have to work a couple of years to earn money before I can think about going to college.” It was a painful admission. “My parents really can’t help out very much right now. I’ll have to earn my own
way.”
“You’re telling me you’re poor then?” Anna Lee wanted to know.
Ali looked around the room. Even out on this screened patio, the elegant furnishings were far beyond anything Ali had ever seen in her own home or even in her friend Reenie Bernard’s far more upscale surroundings. Ali had never thought of herself or of her family as poor, but now with something for comparison she realized they probably were.
“I suppose so,” Ali said.
Without another word, Anna Lee Ashcroft grasped the handle of a small china bell and gave it a sharp ring. Almost immediately a man appeared bearing a tray—a silver tray with a silver tea service on it. Remembering the scene now, Ali couldn’t help but wonder if that man and the sprite who had delivered that morning’s envelope weren’t one and the same—albeit a few decades older.
The man had carefully placed the tea service on the table in front of Anna Lee. She had leaned forward and picked up a cup. “Sugar?” she asked, filling the cup to the brim and handing it over with a surprisingly steady hand.
Ali nodded.
“One lump or two?”
“Two, please.”
“Milk?”
“No, thank you.”
Arabella moved silently to the foreground and began deftly placing finger sandwiches and what Ali would later recognize as petit fours onto delicately patterned china plates. Mrs. Ashcroft said nothing more until the butler—at least that’s what Ali assumed he was—had retreated back the way he had come, disappearing behind a pair of swinging doors into what Ali assumed must lead to a hallway or maybe the kitchen.
Ali juggled cup, saucer, napkin, and plate and hoped she wasn’t doing something terribly gauche while Anna Lee Ashcroft poured two additional cups—one for her daughter and one for herself.
“I don’t have a college education, either,” Anna Lee said at last. “In my day young women of my social standing weren’t encouraged to go off to college. When Arabella came along, her father sent her off to finishing school in Switzerland, but that was it. Furthering her education beyond that would have been unseemly.”
No comment from Ali seemed called for, so she kept quiet and concentrated on not dribbling any tea down the front of her new silk blouse.
“But just because my daughter and I don’t have the benefit of a higher education,” Anna Lee continued, “doesn’t mean we think it’s unimportant, right, Arabella?”
Arabella nodded but said nothing. Sipping her tea, she seemed content to let her mother do the bulk of the talking, but there was something in the daughter’s wary silence that made Ali uneasy.
“You must be wondering why you’ve been asked to come here today,” Anna Lee continued.
“Yes,” Ali said. “I am.”
“This is the first time I’ve done this,” Anna Lee said, “so it may seem a bit awkward. I’ve been told that most of the time announcements of this nature are made at class night celebrations or at some other official occasion, but I wanted to do it this way. In private.”
Ali was still mystified.
“I’ve decided to use some of my inheritance from my mother to establish a scholarship in her honor, the Amelia Dougherty Askins Scholarship, to benefit poor but smart girls from this area. You’ve been selected to be our first recipient—as long as you go on to school, that is.”
Ali was stunned. “A scholarship?” she managed, still not sure she had heard correctly. “You’re giving me a scholarship?”
Anna Lee Ashcroft nodded. “Not quite a ‘full ride’ as they say,” she added dryly. “What you’ll get from us is enough for tuition, books, room, and some board. If your parents really can’t help, you may need to work part time, but you shouldn’t have to put off starting. In fact, you should be able to go off to school this fall right along with all your classmates.”
And that’s exactly what Ali had done. The scholarship had made all the difference for her—it had made going on to college possible. And everything else in Ali’s life had flowed from there.
So Alison Larson Reynolds owed the Ashcrofts—owed them big. If Arabella Ashcroft wanted to summon her to tea once again some twenty-five years later, Ali would be there—with bells on.
{ CHAPTER 2 }
It was late morning when Phoenix PD homicide detectives Larry Marsh and Hank Mendoza arrived at the crime scene in South Mountain Preserve. “What have we got?” Hank asked Abigail Jacobs, the patrol officer who along with her partner, Ed Whalen, had been the first officers to respond to Sybil Harriman’s desperate call to 911.
“We’ve got a dragger,” Officer Jacobs told them. “From what I’m seeing it looks like somebody slammed this poor guy’s left hand in a car door and then dragged him for the better part of a mile—through the parking lot and over several speed bumps. The bloody trail starts way back there by the park entrance.”
“Any ID?”
“Not so far. From what’s left of his clothing, it looks like maybe he was out jogging. We’ve got no ID and no cell phone, either.”
“Too bad,” Hank told her. “These days cell phones work better than anything. Any idea when it happened?”
“The witness found him here about ten A.M.”
“You’re sure it’s a him?”
“Yes, and whoever he is, he’s wearing the remains of a fairly expensive watch,” Abbie Jacobs replied. “A Patek Philippe, and that’s still working.”
“A what?” Larry Marsh said.
Hank Mendoza laughed. “The poor guy’s beaten to hell but the damned watch is still running. But then again, you wouldn’t know a Patek Philippe from a hole in the ground. You’re still wearing your Wal-Mart special Timex.”
“It works,” Larry replied. “And nobody’s tried to steal it.”
“Turns out nobody tried to steal this one, either,” Abbie said, looking down at the mangled hand. “And I for one don’t blame them.”
“Blood’s all dry,” Hank observed. “My guess is this happened sometime overnight. Isn’t the park supposed to be closed at night?”
“Supposed to be,” Officer Jacobs agreed with a shake of her head that left her thick, braided ponytail swinging back and forth. “But declaring it closed and keeping it closed are two different things,” she said. “Kids manage to get in here overnight all the time. Last Halloween we had to rescue a bunch of kids. They were here having a midnight kegger and ran afoul of a herd of javelina. The javelina were not amused.”
“So you patrol out here a lot then?” Hank asked.
Abbie Jacob nodded.
A van with the medical examiner’s logo on the door slowly made its way up the road and stopped nearby. Associate ME Todd Rangel, still munching the last of a Sonic burger, heaved his bulky frame out of the van.
“Sorry to be late to the party, boys and girls,” he said to the group gathered around the battered and bloodied corpse. “But a man’s gotta eat. What have I missed?”
“Not too many meals,” Hank muttered under his breath. Larry elbowed him in the ribs, warning him to silence. Of all the people in the county ME’s office, Todd Rangel won no popularity contests with the homicide cops who were obliged to work with him. The man was overbearing and self-important with a tendency for bossing people around. He was also uncommonly lazy. Todd Rangel’s idea of teamwork was to order someone else to do the heavy lifting.
“Officer Jacobs here says she thinks it’s a dragger,” Larry told the ME, moving aside to allow Rangel access to the corpse. “She says she followed a trail of blood for the better part of a mile from back toward the entrance.”
Shading his eyes with one hand, Rangel looked in the direction Larry was pointing. “I’ll check that out by car a little later,” he said.
Hank Mendoza shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Big surprise,” he mouthed to Abbie Jacobs, who barely managed to suppress a grin.
“Robbery?” Rangel asked.
“Could be, but probably not,” Larry said. “His wallet’s missing, but as you can see, the watch isn’t.”
Rangel nodded. “Or maybe it was too bloody and the perp didn’t want to risk taking it off.”
“Maybe.”
“You guys got what you need from right around here or can I go to work?” Rangel asked.
“Go ahead,” Hank said. “Knock yourself out.”
While they had been talking, several uniformed officers, including Abbie’s partner Ed Whalen and a crew of crime scene techs, had been moving along the roadway and using traffic cones to mark off the bloody strip in the pavement. Leaving Todd Rangel alone with the body, the detectives walked over to Whalen and the others. One of the techs was wielding a camera and snapping photos of bloodstained tire tracks. Another was carefully making plaster casts.
Suddenly, a few feet away, another crime scene tech raised a shout. “Hey, come look at this,” he said.
Led by Officer Whalen, the detectives hurried over to the edge of the pavement. There, on the shoulder of the road and partly concealed in a clump of dried grass, lay a shiny handgun.
“No rust,” the tech told them. “That means it hasn’t been here long.”
Whalen leaned down and threaded a pencil through the trigger guard and lifted the weapon out of the grass. “Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special,” he said.
“Has it been fired?” Detective Marsh asked.
Whalen raised the revolver to his nose and sniffed. “Not anytime recently,” he said.
“Bag it anyway,” Hank Mendoza ordered. “Just because no one’s fired it doesn’t mean it isn’t related.”
“Where’s the witness?” Larry asked.
“She wasn’t feeling too well,” Abbie replied. “I offered to call an ambulance and have her taken to a hospital to be checked out, but she said she just wanted to go home and lie down. I have her address in Awatukee. Want to stop by and see her?”
“Absolutely,” Detective Marsh told her. “Hank and I will pay her a visit and find out what she knows.”
“It won’t be much,” Abbie said. “She was just out walking and, like, found the body.”
Larry cringed. Cops who overused the word like tended to make him feel older than his years.