J.A. Jance's Ali Reynolds Mysteries 3-Book Boxed Set, Volume 1: Web of Evil, Hand of Evil, Cruel Intent

by Jance, J. A.

  “I’ve been racking my brain ever since we got off the phone, and I finally came up with it. The Mosberg Institute.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The name of the place where they sent Arabella Ashcroft. And it wasn’t the Bay Area, it was located in Paso Robles. I believe it started out as a home for the criminally insane. By the time Arabella went there, it had become a bit more upscale, but it was still a dreadful place. I can’t imagine sending a child of mine into a world of electroshock therapy, ice baths, and God knows what else. I’m sure it wasn’t at all like those posh rehab places they have up and down Malibu these days. But about the Mosberg, I’m fuzzy on the details. I believe it’s closed now, but I seem to remember there was some kind of fire there, and I think several people died.”

  The very mention of ice baths and shock treatments caused Ali to shiver. If that had been Arabella Ashcroft’s reality at age nine, no wonder she would have objected to Billy Ashcroft threatening to have her locked up again.

  Ali thanked Deb for her help, ended her phone call, and was about to enter Mosberg Institute into her search engine, when she heard Chris’s Prius pull up outside. She closed her computer with a snap.

  It was time to turn away from some of the Ashcroft family carrying-ons and pay attention to her own.

  { CHAPTER 16 }

  Larry Marsh returned from the evidence room to find Hank on the phone, apparently on interminable hold.

  “So where are we?” he asked.

  Hank impatiently waved him to silence. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks so much. If he could call me back with that information, I’d really appreciate it.” Hank put down the phone. “Still tracking with the VA,” he explained. “What about you?”

  “I read the diary,” Larry Marsh answered. “It could be Ali Reynolds is right and there is something there.”

  “What do we do about it?” Hank asked.

  “Let’s order up everything available on the other two Ashcroft characters. You take Senior. I’ll take Junior, and we’ll see what gives. We should probably do the same thing for Arabella while we’re at it.”

  For the better part of the next two hours the only sounds coming from their cubicle were the click of computer keys and the whir of their printer. It didn’t take long for Larry to hit pay dirt.

  “Look at this,” he said. “It’s from a column in the L.A. Times. It squares with what Ali Reynolds said and also with what was in the diary: ‘We are saddened to report that over the holiday weekend, Bill Cowan Ashcroft Junior’s hand was severely injured as a result of a tree-cutting accident at his father’s Brentwood Estate. He was taken by ambulance to the hospital, where he underwent emergency surgery. No further details about his condition are forthcoming at this time, but we certainly wish Bill and his family well.’”

  “A tree-trimming accident?” Hank repeated. “With a father richer than God he has his son out cutting trees instead of a gardener? Sounds bogus to me.”

  “Right. They came up with the tree story so no one would hear the real one, as in I was messing with my baby sister and she came after me with a knife. When it comes to having the story show up on the news, having a close encounter with an ax is a lot more palatable than the baby-sister angle.”

  By then, Hank had finished with Bill Senior and had moved on to Arabella. “What are you finding on her?” Larry asked.

  “Not much at all,” Hank told him. “No driver’s license that I can find. No marriage. No kids. No divorces, and almost zero press. The Ashcroft menfolk were publicity hounds. And Arabella’s mother, Anna Lee Askins Ashcroft, was a big deal in her own right. There are articles about her participation in museum galas and plenty of opera and symphony events. Once she moved to Arizona, she was even a big-time supporter of Barry Goldwater’s presidential campaign. Compared to the rest of the family, Arabella’s interaction with the public is damned near nonexistent.”

  “If she doesn’t have a valid operator’s license, who drives that Silver Cloud we saw in her garage?” Larry asked.

  “Arabella Ashcroft is the registered owner all right, but the insurance company lists Leland Brooks as the only driver.”

  “That would be the butler?” Larry asked.

  Hank nodded. “The butler/chauffeur. He’s been with the family for years. The mother, Anna Lee, died in 1995 after outliving Bill Senior by a dozen years. Since then it’s just been Arabella and the butler.”

  Ali had always valued her close relationship with Chris, and the idea that she had been kept in the dark about a potentially serious girlfriend came as a shock. Ali had raised her son alone and had prided herself on the fact they had remained close through those difficult years of teenage angst when many mother/son relationships had run aground. As Chris came into the house and paused to hang up his jacket, it struck Ali as totally unfair that at the moment she knew far more about the details of Crystal Holman’s tempestuous life and intimate relations than she did about what was going on with her very own son.

  “Hey, Mom,” he said. “How’s it going?”

  There was no sense in attempting to play coy. “Tell me about Athena,” Ali returned.

  Chris’s handsome face fell. “Who blabbed?” he asked. “Grandma?”

  “Who’s Athena?” Ali insisted. “And what’s wrong with her?”

  Chris picked Sam up off the couch and then sat down in the same spot with the cat ensconced in his lap. “What makes you think something’s wrong with her?”

  “Because you didn’t tell me about her.”

  “I wanted you to meet her first so you could make up your own mind,” Chris said. “I didn’t want you to have any preconceived ideas about her. Besides, you’ve been so busy with Crystal Holman and everything…”

  Not that busy! Ali thought. “But Grandpa and Grandma have already met her?” she asked.

  Chris shrugged. “We went to the Sugarloaf for breakfast the other morning,” Chris said. “She loves the sweet rolls.”

  “But since we’re all meeting for dinner tonight, you also knew that you couldn’t keep her a secret forever. Tell me. Tell me everything.”

  “She’s older,” Chris said guardedly.

  “How much older?”

  “Six years.”

  Ali was relieved. It could have been a lot worse. “That’s not so bad,” she said. “Where did you meet her?”

  “At school. She teaches math—algebra, geometry, trig, calculus.”

  That was a surprise. Chris had fallen for a math major? Ali’s idea of advanced mathematics was balancing her checkbook.

  “What else?”

  “Mom, what do you mean ‘what else?’ Why the third degree?”

  For the first time Ali realized that she had been blessed—or maybe cursed—with some of her mother’s abilities at discernment.

  “Because there’s more you’re not telling me.”

  “She’s divorced,” Chris admitted. “But that was finalized last summer, before I even met her.”

  “Kids?”

  “No kids.”

  Ali sighed. “That’s a relief.”

  “But she’d make a great mother,” Chris put in quickly.

  “I’m sure she would,” Ali agreed. “So that’s it? That’s everything?”

  Chris paused. “Not exactly,” he admitted finally.

  Ali had tried to raise her son to be open-minded. She had welcomed friends of all shapes, sizes, and races into their home.

  That’s it, she thought. I’m about to have my very own Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? moment.

  “What exactly?” Ali prompted.

  For a long moment Chris sat stroking Sam’s silky fur saying nothing. “She was in Iraq,” he said finally. “She went there with the Minnesota National Guard.”

  “She’s a soldier, then?”

  “Was a soldier,” Chris said. “Her Humvee got hit by an IED while she was riding shotgun. She’s a double amputee. She lost her right leg above the knee and her right arm above the elbow.”
r />   That was not what Ali had been expecting—not even close. For a moment Ali said nothing. She had hoped that Chris would somehow avoid her checkered marital experience and find his way to the perfect suburban life with a lovely wife, a couple of cute kids, and even a dog or cat or two. But this didn’t sound lovely at all. She couldn’t dodge the unwelcome juxtaposition between this and what Deb Springer had told her about Bill Ashcroft Junior’s amputated hand.

  “But you wouldn’t know it,” Chris continued cheerfully. “She’s terrific, Mom. I know you’ll like her. She bowls better than I do—left-handed, and she’s hoping to play basketball again, but that’s a lot harder.”

  Ali looked at Chris. As he talked about the girl, his face glowed with excitement. And happiness.

  “You’re really serious about her, aren’t you?”

  Chris paused. “I didn’t mean to be,” he said. “It’s just that she’s different from the other girls I’ve dated. A lot more…I don’t know. A lot more grown up, I guess.”

  “What happened to her husband?”

  “He was in the National Guard, too. That’s where they met—basic training. She got sent to Iraq; he didn’t. He got involved with someone else while she was deployed. Dumped her with a Dear Jane letter while she was still recovering at Walter Reed. That’s why she left Minnesota and came here. Her ex still lives there with his new wife.”

  Ali looked at Chris as though he was a stranger. In the blink of an eye, he had gone from being a boy to being a man—a man whose mind was made up.

  “When did you know?” Ali asked.

  “Know what?”

  “That she was the one.”

  “The first time I saw her,” Chris said. “At the very first faculty meeting back in August. She walked in the door, and I knew. It took me a while to work up the nerve to ask her out.”

  Love at first sight, Ali thought. That was what had happened to her with Dean, and with Dean it had worked. That instant attraction had sustained them both through all the tough times that had come along later.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about her?” Ali asked. “Why have you kept it under wraps all this time?”

  Chris chewed on his lower lip before he answered. “To begin with, you were going through that whole divorce mess,” he said. “Then, after Paul died and you were, well, upset, it just didn’t seem fair for me to be falling in love when your life was in the toilet.”

  Hearing that made Ali’s heart wince. He had kept Athena a secret from her because he was trying to protect her. That was Chris, all right—thoughtful to a fault.

  “It sounds as though you’re taking on a lot,” Ali said.

  Chris nodded. “But wait ’til you meet her, Mom. You’re going to love her as much as I do.”

  Ali reached over and patted her son’s knee. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “And I’m sure I will.”

  Eager to change the subject, Chris glanced at Ali’s computer. “Working on cutloose?” he asked.

  “I’m actually doing some research on Arabella Ashcroft and her family,” Ali said.

  “How come?”

  “Her nephew was murdered down in Phoenix this week. I think he was threatening to blow the lid off some long-buried family secret, and I think that’s why he’s dead. So I’m looking into the Ashcroft archives. The problem is, they were prominent members of the California business establishment for decades. I have a feeling there’s going to be tons of material. The trick will be boiling it down and figuring out if any of it is relevant.”

  “Want some help?”

  “Please,” Ali said. “I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Hang on,” Chris said. “I’ll go get my laptop.”

  In a little less than an hour of working on the project, Chris had amassed an astonishing amount of material on the Ashcroft clan—their various businesses, charitable events, and forays into southern California’s high society. He gathered the articles from various sources, printed them, and handed them over to Ali, who read through them one at a time.

  For ease of study, Ali sorted the assembled articles into stacks, one for each person involved. It didn’t take long for Ali to realize that the Ashcroft menfolk were definitely front and center in all this while the women faded into the background. There was far more information about Anna Lee Askins Ashcroft after she had moved to Sedona than there had been while she was still in California. It was as though she had been forced to move to another state in order to come into her own right.

  It was in one of the Anna Lee articles where Ali found a first mention of the Mosberg Institute. Anna Lee was cited several times as a leading benefactress for the Mosberg Institute. Later she was quoted briefly in a much longer article from the Paso Robles Herald, dated March 20, 1956, which discussed the previous week’s fatal fire:

  “This is an unspeakable tragedy,” said Mrs. Anna Lee Ashcroft, a longtime Mosberg Institute supporter. “These are vulnerable people and we’re fortunate more lives weren’t lost. And the idea that someone actually set the fire is absolutely appalling.”

  Ali was still reading the whole article when Chris closed his computer. “We can do more of this later,” he said. “Right now, I need to go pick up Athena. I promised Grandma we’d come by to help move furniture and set the table.”

  The Larsons’ tiny home contained a kitchen and a living room but no formal dining room. To accommodate groups larger than four, it was necessary to move the kitchen table into the living room and drag in seating from elsewhere in the house.

  “You go on ahead,” Ali said. “As soon as I finish reading this one article, I’ll shower and dress and be there, too.”

  She was about to shut her own computer when a click announced the arrival of an incoming e-mail. Thinking the message might be from Velma T, Ali clicked over to her e-mail account. The address line on her newest message was disturbingly familiar—uttley, t. uttley.

  Some relation to Coach Curt? Ali wondered and pressed OPEN.

  So your friend’s runaway “daughter is safe at home,” the little slut? I’m sure you didn’t post her name in your blog because you’re protecting her privacy. How can you? She’s a wicked temptress who led a good man into sin. Why should she be protected? Who’s going to protect my two boys? What about their privacy? Their father is dead, and it’s all because of her. My husband’s name is being dragged through the mud in the paper and on the news. That means my boys’ name is there, too.

  Curtis and I had our troubles, but we got counseling for them. He came back to church with me and the boys. We were doing fine until she came along, got her hooks into him, and led him astray. And if you don’t believe she’s evil, maybe you’ll want to check out this Web site. I found it on Curt’s computer and couldn’t believe I was seeing such filth. Maybe you should post it on your blog so the people who read it will know the kind of company you keep.

  The Good Book says we should pray for our enemies. I am praying for her all right. I am praying that girl will rot in hell.

  Sincerely,

  THERESA UTTLEY

  Here’s the link.

  Ali could hardly argue with the idea that the sins of the father ought not to be visited on the children. Coach Curt’s sons were in no way responsible for what their father had done, but the suggestion that Crystal was somehow solely to blame for Curt’s going astray was preposterous.

  Shaking her head, Ali hit the link and waited for the URL to load and open. When the image first came on the screen, it was so poorly lit that it was difficult to make any sense of what was there. Ali decided that the filming was being done by someone with very limited know-how using computerized podcast equipment. Eventually, though, the images clarified themselves, and then it was all too clear. A middle-aged man’s sagging, naked body complete with nonsagging equipment stood directly in front of the camera. And a girl—a very familiar girl—was being pulled toward him. “Come to Daddy,” he was saying. “Come to Daddy.”

  Filled with revulsion, Ali sla
mmed shut the lid of her laptop, breaking her Internet connection and shutting off the video. She sat there for a very long time feeling sick to her stomach. Gradually she was able to remember what Theresa Uttley had said. Something about Crystal being a temptress and leading Curt Uttley astray. Only someone totally blinded by her own grief and despair could fail to see that Crystal was anything but a temptress here. She was a victim, too—a manipulated, helpless victim.

  Who the hell is this jerk? Ali wondered. Gary Whitman, maybe? And once I know who he is, how do I keep Dave from killing him?

  The phone rang. Ali had to take a deep breath before she was able to answer. What if it was Dave? What would she say to him? How would she tell him?

  “Am I still in the doghouse?” Ali’s mother wanted to know.

  Ali was still so shaken by what she’d just seen that it was difficult to get a fix on what Edie was saying. “No,” Ali answered at last. “You’re out of it. Chris and I had a chance to talk. Everything is fine.”

  “You’re sure?” Edie asked. “You don’t sound fine.”

  “I’m sure,” Ali said more forcefully.

  “All right then. I was going to ask Chris to bring along a couple of bottles of wine from that wine cellar of yours, but then I realized Kip and Sandy met in AA, so probably no wine, right?”

  “Right,” Ali agreed. “And Chris is already on his way. He’s off picking up Athena right now.”

  “Fair enough,” Edie said. “See you in a little. I’ve fallen a bit behind. I know I told you we’d be eating at six, but it’ll probably be closer to six-thirty.”

  Wanting to wash the ugly images of Crystal’s victimization from her mind, Ali stood under the shower and let the water fall full on her face. Who is Daddy? she wondered. It was a common enough phrase. Ali knew enough about Dave’s trim physique to recognize his wasn’t the body featured in the offending video, and the man could have been anyone. Vegas was full of men looking for sex with runaways, prostitutes, whatever. Then again the problem could be much closer to home. Ali had never met Gary Whitman in person, so she had no idea what he looked like, but Ali was left with the sinking feeling that Crystal’s stepfather wasn’t in the running for Father of the Year.