by Jance, J. A.
“Where would she be? Inside and asleep, I’m sure. I gave her all her medication before I left. She should be sleeping through the night. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Because she’s taken off somewhere, and she’s taken a woman named Alison Reynolds with her.”
“Ms. Reynolds is missing?” Brooks asked. “Whatever may have happened, I can’t imagine that Miss Arabella has anything to do with it, and I’m sure you’ll find the Rolls is right here in the garage where it belongs.”
“Do you mind showing us?”
“Of course not. The clicker’s in my pocket. You’ll have to get it out.”
“Which pocket?”
“The front one.”
“Do you have anything dangerous in here—anything that will hurt me?”
“You mean like a needle or something? Certainly not!” Brooks said. “I’m not some kind of druggie, if that’s what you’re implying.”
With some difficulty Hank emptied Brooks’s pockets, extracting a wallet, a set of keys, and a small plastic clicker. When he punched the button the heavy garage door rolled up and a light came on revealing an expanse of shiny concrete polished to a high gloss.
“It is gone,” Brooks said, confirming the obvious. “But someone else must have taken it. I’m sure Miss Arabella is asleep in her room exactly where I left her.”
“Do you mind if we check?” Larry asked.
“Of course not. Go into the kitchen, through the swinging doors, and then down the hall. Her room is the first one on the left, but I can tell you for sure. Miss Arabella wouldn’t be driving the car. She doesn’t even have a license.”
“That doesn’t stop some people,” Larry observed.
Hank set off without further urging. He was back in less than a minute. “No one’s there,” he said. “The place is empty.”
“Oh, my,” Brooks said. Sounding genuinely dismayed, he staggered over to the front porch where, unassisted, he sank down on the top step. “How can this be?”
“We thought maybe you could tell us something about that, Mr. Brooks,” Larry said. “When was the last time…”
“Wait a minute,” Brooks interrupted. “You’ve read me my rights? Don’t tell me you think I had something to do with Mr. Ashcroft’s death. I can’t imagine why you’d think such a thing. It’s outrageous.”
“Have you ever heard of someone named Arthur Reed?” Larry asked. “I believe he served in Korea about the same time you did?”
“Of course, I remember Art Reed. United States Marine Corps. Why wouldn’t I?”
“And he gave you his Silver Star?”
“Yes, he did. I was really honored and touched. I saved his life once. Later when he was awarded a Silver Star, he decided to share the honor with me.”
“What became of it?”
“Of the star itself? I’m not sure. It wasn’t mine to wear, of course, since I hadn’t earned it. I treasured it, but I lost track of it years ago, shortly after it was given to me. How do you know about it, and why are you asking?”
“How do you suppose your Silver Star would have turned up in William Ashcroft’s vehicle?” Larry asked. “Our CSI team found it under the floor mat after he was murdered.”
“I have no idea where it’s been all this time or how it got there.”
“You must.”
Larry’s phone rang. “Detective Marsh? Dave Holman here. Your people down in Phoenix have brought us into the loop. I thought you’d want to know that when we put out the APB on that Rolls, we got a hit.”
“You already found her then?”
“No,” Holman answered, “but the Rolls was caught by a red-light camera making an illegal left turn in Scottsdale at Scottsdale and Camelback, just before midnight, Monday night. The citation went out in the mail today. Your records folks were able to scan through the video record and come up with the actual photo. It would appear that Arabella Ashcroft was at the wheel, and she was alone in the vehicle.”
Larry closed his phone. “So where were you on Monday night, Mr. Brooks?” he asked.
The butler shook his head. “I know that’s the night Mr. Ashcroft died,” he said. “But I was out the whole evening, from late afternoon on. It’s my day off.”
“Where did you go?”
“Prescott.”
“What did you do there?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not say.”
“You might want to reconsider,” Larry suggested. “I’ve just received word that the Rolls was cited for running a red light in Scottsdale on Monday night and the insurance company has you listed as the sole driver. We also know that property directly traceable to you was found at the scene of the crime. So if you happen to have a verifiable alibi for the time in question, Mr. Brooks, now might be a good time to mention it.”
Leland Brooks sighed. “I was at Paddy’s,” he said after a pause. “Paddy O’Toole’s”
“Where’s that?” Hank asked. “One of those bars on Prescott’s famed Whiskey Row?”
Leland shook his head. “It’s a world away from Whiskey Row. It’s a private club. A gay private club out in the valley. Some of the people I saw there might not want to be connected to a homicide investigation.”
“Name one,” Larry said.
“There’s the bartender,” Brooks said reluctantly. “His name is Barry—Barry Stone.”
“Anyone else?”
“Can you be discreet?” Leland asked.
“That depends.”
“Patrick Macey,” Leland said. “Judge Patrick Macey.”
“What kind of judge?”
Leland Brooks sighed. “Superior court. We’ve been involved for a dozen years. He’s married. His wife’s an Alzheimer’s patient. His kids don’t know about him. They don’t know about us.”
“Phone numbers, please,” Larry said.
Brooks reeled them off from memory, and Hank keyed the first one into his phone.
“Please,” Brooks begged. “It’s cold out here. I’m freezing. Can’t we go inside?”
With Detective Mendoza outside on the phone, Larry took Brooks into the kitchen and seated him at a table. The kitchen was surprising cold as well. At Brooks’s direction, Larry switched on the baseboard heat. The room was starting to warm up when Hank came inside several minutes later, carrying the scattered groceries.
“His story checks out,” Hank said, setting the box down on the counter. “Both Stone and Macey say he was there, from late afternoon until closing.”
Brooks heaved a sigh of relief. “I told you,” he said. “I told you I had nothing to do with it.”
“What about Mr. Ashcroft’s visit here on Sunday?” Larry said. He came across the room and removed the cuffs. “Were you privy to their conversation? Do you know what was said?”
“Thank you,” Leland said, rubbing his wrists. “As to your question, I maintain certain professional standards. That means there are some lines that are never crossed. In other words, I don’t listen outside doors, if that’s what you’re implying. Yes, I was aware of Mr. Ashcroft’s visit. I showed him in and I showed him out. I was curious, of course, but all Miss Arabella told me was that he had asked her for money. He would have been better served asking me about that since I’m the one who handles the finances, but he didn’t.”
“She didn’t go into any further detail?”
“Not until you were here on Tuesday. That was the first I heard anything about Mr. Ashcroft’s bizarre reverse mortgage proposal. I would never have let that one fly.”
“What happened after he left?” Larry asked.
“I’d have to say Miss Arabella seemed anxious and distressed, enough so that I was afraid it might trigger another one of her episodes…”
“What kind of episode?” Marsh asked.
“She has debilitating emotional episodes from time to time—has had her whole life,” Brooks replied. “A good deal of the time she stays on an even keel, but she goes a bit haywire on occasion, can’t sleep, suffers from del
usions, talks to people who aren’t there. That sort of thing. At times like those I’m especially careful that she takes all her medications, and I did that this time, too. Even when you came to tell us Mr. Ashcroft had died, it just never occurred to me that she might have done something that drastic.”
“Could she have?” Larry Marsh asked.
Brooks didn’t answer for some time.
“Well?” Larry pressed.
“Perhaps,” Brooks admitted at last.
“How?”
“There was a problem with the mileage.”
“What kind of problem?” Larry Marsh asked.
“On the Rolls. I keep track of the mileage each time I get gas. On Thursday, when I went to fill up, I noticed there was a two-hundred-plus-mile discrepancy between what I had written down last week and what was showing on the odometer. I thought I’d just forgotten to make the proper notation. It never crossed my mind that she might have taken the car out and driven somewhere herself.”
“What about weapons?” Hank Mendoza put in. “Do you have any handguns in the house?”
Brooks stiffened and seemed to get a grip. “Several,” he said at once. “Mrs. Ashcroft was a very talented markswoman. And Miss Arabella is a fair shot, as well. We’ve done target practice, but only under strict supervision. And you don’t need to worry about the weapons. They’re all locked away in the safe in the library. I can show them to you if you like.”
“Lead the way.”
They followed Brooks through the house, through a dining room and living room and into a spacious library. “The light switch is over there,” he said, nodding. “And I can tell you how to move the panel, but it would be ever so much easier if you’d allow me to do it.”
“Be our guest,” Larry Marsh said. Brooks moved forward, touched a place on the wall, and a whole section of bookcase swung open, revealing a massive safe. Brooks expertly worked the combination lock then pressed the handle. The door swung wide and a light came on inside, revealing an interior as large as a laundry room. One side was hung with wall-to-wall fur coats.
Brooks frowned. “Where’s the mink?” he asked.
Walking over to a tall cabinet, he pulled out one drawer, slammed that one shut, and opened another and another and another. “Damn!” he muttered. “They’re gone—all of them. But how’s that possible? I’m the only one with the combination to the safe.”
“Evidently not,” Larry Marsh said. “So what kinds of guns are we talking about, and how many?”
“Where is she?”
“Who?” Ali asked.
“The girl,” Arabella said. “The one you told me about.”
When Ali had tried to bring up the subject of Crystal earlier, Arabella had shut down so thoroughly, Ali wasn’t even sure she had heard her mention it. Now though, with their Big Macs gone and with the Rolls back under way and driving through the forested night, Ali was surprised when the conversation returned to that topic as though there’d been no interruption.
“She’s back home,” Ali said. “Back with her family. So how would you advise her? If you could talk to her and give her the benefit of your experience, what would you say?”
“Does her mother love her?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t say that like it’s always the case,” Arabella cautioned. “It isn’t always true, you know.”
“Are you trying to say your mother didn’t love you?” Ali asked. “I met her, you know. I saw how she was.”
“There’s a difference between love and duty,” Arabella said. “Mother had a duty to take care of me, especially since, as people like to say, ‘I wasn’t quite right in the head.’ I give her credit. She did that; she’s still doing that. That’s why Mr. Brooks is still looking after me. Mother arranged all that long before she died. But don’t kid yourself. I don’t think Mother ever really loved me.”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“Because I was the reason she had to get married.”
“But your father…”
“Bill Ashcroft Senior gave me my name, but he was definitely not my father,” Arabella said flatly. “It was like I was dropped into a family of strangers. So what about this girl? What’s her family like, and does her mother love her?”
Ali thought about Roxanne Whitman. “Yes,” she said. “I think she does.”
“And the father?”
“He loves her, too. There’s a stepfather in the picture, though,” Ali said. “I’m worried about him.”
“The girl should tell her mother, then,” Arabella declared. “She should definitely tell her mother.”
“And what if the same thing happens to her that happened to you? What if her mother doesn’t believe her?”
“Well,” Arabella said thoughtfully, after a pause. “In that case, don’t let her have any knives.”
When the three men returned to the spacious kitchen, Brooks offered to make coffee. While Hank hurried outside to notify the other jurisdictions of the changed dynamics in the situation, Larry Marsh sat at the kitchen table and watched while the butler bustled about, starting a pot of coffee and making a platter of sandwiches. By the time Hank came back inside, the coffee was ready. He picked up one of the sandwiches, which had been cut into small pieces and stacked three deep on a delicately flowered china platter.
When Hank bit into the first tiny morsel, a broad smile lit up his face. “Damn,” he muttered. “If this doesn’t beat the roach coach all hollow.”
Brooks handed each of the cops stiff white napkins that had been starched and pressed with military precision. The coffee was excellent, but it was served in tiny white cups with handles much too small for Detective Marsh’s somewhat meaty fingers.
“So tell us about the guns,” Larry Marsh said, munching another piece of sandwich. “How many are missing?”
“Three,” Brooks said. “All of them handguns. Mine was a thirty-eight—an old Chief’s Special. I bought it new in 1955 when Mrs. Ashcroft hired me. She was interested in having both a butler and a bodyguard. Since I was a former commando who had been trained as a cook, she decided I filled her bill. She actually sent me back to England to attend butler school.”
“So this thirty-eight. What was it?” Larry asked. “A Smith and Wesson Airweight?”
Brooks frowned. “Yes, it was, but how would you know that?”
“Because we found one just like that,” Larry said. “At the crime scene.”
“You didn’t mention Mr. Ashcroft was shot,” Brooks said.
“He wasn’t, but that’s still where we found the gun. What were the others?”
“Mrs. Ashcroft had a pair of pearl-handled first model Lady-smiths, both small-frame revolvers chambered for seven twenty-two-caliber long rounds. Those are missing as well, but those are mostly used for target practice. Less dangerous than the thirty-eight.”
“Not at close range,” Marsh returned. “So wherever she is, we have to assume she’s armed and dangerous. Is she a good shot?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Brooks said. “I suppose she is. I trained her myself.”
“But you said she was nuts,” Marsh objected. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“I didn’t say she was nuts, sir,” Brooks said. “Miss Arabella is prone to moods, and I did it because I was asked to. Besides, we only did target shooting. The rest of the time the guns were safely under lock and key.”
“Right,” Hank Mendoza said. “You mean like they are right now.”
Brooks nodded and said nothing.
“What do you know about the death of Mr. Ashcroft’s father?” Larry asked.
“That would be Bill Junior. That’s how Mrs. Ashcroft always referred to him. But I thought this was all about Billy. Bill Junior died in an automobile accident in 1956. He was a notorious drinker. He went off the side of a mountain and that was the end of him.”
“Was Arabella ever questioned in conjunction with that death?” Larry asked.
“No one was questioned th
at I know of. But there would have been no reason at all to question Miss Arabella. She was miles away at the time, hospitalized at a facility in Paso Robles.”
“Yes,” Larry Marsh said. “The Mosberg Institute. We know that’s where she was supposed to be. We also know that the charge nurse who was primarily responsible for Arabella’s care at the time died in a tragic fire at the Mosberg a few days after Mr. Ashcroft’s death.”
“I seem to remember that, too,” Leland Brooks said. “And a patient died as well. I believe he was something of a firebug—a serial arsonist. The fire was laid at his door, metaphorically speaking, but Mrs. Ashcroft was of the opinion that there was a good deal of covering up about that incident. It was one of the reasons she took Miss Arabella out of there and moved her to the Bancroft House, a place down in what’s now part of Carefree. It was after Miss Arabella came to Arizona that Mrs. Ashcroft decided to buy this place.”
“You were already working for the Ashcrofts at that time?”
“I worked for Mrs. Ashcroft from 1955 on,” Leland Brooks said stiffly. “I never worked for Mr. Ashcroft Senior, and I never had anything to do with him, either.” The butler shuddered. “He was a perfectly dreadful man. So was his son. Mrs. Ashcroft, on the other hand, was a wonderful human being and very generous. At the time of her death, she saw to it that I’d be taken care of so that her daughter, in turn, would be taken care of. I look after the house and the vehicles, manage the household accounts, make sure Miss Arabella sees her doctors and takes her medications. I also drive her wherever she wants to go.”
“It sounds pretty all-encompassing,” Larry Marsh said.
“Of course it is,” Leland Brooks returned with a smile. “I’m a butler.”
As the Rolls turned off the highway onto a small, single lane road that wound through the West Clear Creek Wilderness, Ali was beginning to wonder if they should have bought gas at the same time they stopped for those Big Macs. But at least here, in the middle of nowhere, if she decided to overpower Arabella and take her down, no one else could possibly be hurt. She was still hoping that, at some point, Arabella would simply fall asleep.
“Punishment,” Arabella announced from the backseat. “That’s what’s important. If your friend’s abuser gets punished, that helps. A little. You see, I took care of what Bill Junior did to me. And I took care of what he did to Miss Ponder. But what about the others?”