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.

  “She did say she didn’t want to go anymore,” Roxanne pointed out. “She said that a couple of weeks ago.”

  “And I told her she didn’t have a choice,” Gary said. “She needed to clean up her act, or else.”

  Ali’s heart constricted. In her own way, Crystal had tried to tell someone. She probably hadn’t told anyone the whole story, but she had asked for help, and no one had listened. Her parents hadn’t listened, but Ali had. And now something was going to be done about it.

  “I hate to have to tell you this, Mr. and Mrs. Whitman,” Detective Gutierrez said. “We have reason to believe that Mr. Masters is a sexual predator who has had inappropriate sexual contact with your daughter. We need to talk to her about it.”

  “Why, that son of a bitch!” Gary Whitman exclaimed, his whole body rigid with absolute outrage. “That low-down son of a bitch! Let me at him. I’ll tear him limb from limb!”

  Just then Crystal appeared in the doorway to the living room. She was wearing a robe. A damp towel was wrapped around her head. “Mom? Gary?” she asked uncertainly, looking from one face to another. “What’s going on?”

  Roxanne leaped off the couch and hurried to her daughter’s side. “Oh, my poor baby,” she murmured, gathering Crystal into her arms. “Come in here. I think we need to talk.”

  { CHAPTER 21 }

  On Wednesday of the following week Rudyard Kipling Hogan was laid to rest in the cemetery of his hometown of Kingman, Arizona. Ali, along with everyone else, was surprised when it turned out to be a far larger funeral than anyone—including the mortuary—had expected. A standing-room-only crowd turned out to bury him as if paying their respects to a departed hero. As the local paper had editorialized, regardless of who had actually killed Kip Hogan, he was as much a victim of that long-ago but not forgotten fire as the men who had perished in the actual inferno. It had simply taken a lot longer for him to die.

  Elizabeth Barrett Hogan came home for her son’s funeral, accompanied throughout the services by both Sandy Mitchell and Jane Braeton. Ali heard several people speculating about who was who and most especially wondering about the two very protective women who never left Elizabeth’s side, but since Elizabeth wasn’t telling, neither was Ali.

  She was standing nearby when, at the end of the graveside ceremony, Ali’s father went over to Elizabeth’s wheelchair and handed her an envelope. Ali knew what it was. Bob had found it in the LazyDaze when he had cleaned it out. It was a letter Kip had written to his mother only a few months before his death, one that bore the U.S. Postal Service’s inarguable determination—Return to Sender.

  “Kip tried to write to you,” Bob Larson said. “But it was too late. The forwarding address had run out by then, and it came back.”

  Elizabeth held the envelope up to the sunlight and peered at it from several different angles. Then she stowed it, unopened, in the purse that rested on her lap. “Thank you for this,” she said, smiling up at him. “If Kip wrote it, it’s not too late. And thank you for being his friend.”

  Bob patted her shoulder wordlessly and then hurried away, but not fast enough that his wife and daughter failed to see what was going on. Edie Larson hurried to her grieving husband’s side. “Come on, Bobby,” she said. “Let’s get out of here before you make a complete fool of yourself.”

  A week after Arabella Ashcroft’s arraignment, Ali received a surprise call from the woman’s attorney, Morgan Hatfield. Ali knew from news reports that Arabella had pled innocent to one charge of vehicular manslaughter in the death of Billy Ashcroft. She knew, too, from Dave that additional charges were pending in other jurisdictions, including involvement in the deaths of the nurse and patient who had perished in the fire at the Mosberg Institute and the woman who had run an institution called the Bancroft House near Carefree. In the mid-sixties the director had gone for a horseback ride, had been reported missing, and had been found dead months later. At the time, no one had connected her death to Arabella Ashcroft’s being incarcerated there. Now they had.

  It occurred to Ali that this was a time when pleading insanity might actually be the right thing to do, but she didn’t mention that to Mr. Hatfield.

  “Arabella would really like to see you,” Morgan said. “She’s in the new high-security jail on South Fourth in Phoenix.”

  Arabella had lied to Ali on so many occasions about so many things, that Ali wasn’t eager to go another round. “Why?” Ali asked. “What does she want?”

  “I’m not sure, but you know Arabella. She was quite adamant.”

  Two days later, still filled with misgivings, Ali drove herself to Phoenix. Arabella came into the visitors’ room wearing shackles and a bright orange jail jumpsuit.

  “The food here is dreadful,” Arabella said, as soon as she sat down opposite Ali behind a Plexiglas window. “Have you heard of nutrition loaf? It’s where they mix all the food together in a terrible conglomeration, bake it, and serve it as a meal.”

  As jail fare went, nutrition loaf was fully balanced and amazingly cheap. “I’ve heard of it,” Ali said.

  “Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have one of Mr. Brooks’s dinners about now,” Arabella said wistfully. “He did a particularly wonderful job with lamb chops. Have you heard from him, by the way?”

  “No,” Ali said. “I haven’t.”

  “I haven’t either, not directly,” Arabella said. “He must be terribly angry with me. I’m afraid I’ve been a naughty, naughty girl.”

  That’s the understatement of the century, Ali thought.

  “I’ve also heard rumors that there’s only one person interested in buying my house,” Arabella continued. “He’s a developer, of course. He’s planning on tearing it down. The real estate agent warned me that, if he does make an offer, it’ll probably be for only a fraction of what the place is worth—pennies on the dollar.”

  “So?”

  “I’d like you to buy it,” Arabella said. “For this.”

  Using a pencil, she jotted a sum down on a three-by-five card and shoved it through the opening under the window that separated them.

  Ali looked at the amount and put the paper down. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. “That’s pennies on the dollar, too.”

  “Yes, it is,” Arabella said. “But you wouldn’t tear it down. And anything that’s left after I pay off Mr. Hatfield will go to a good cause—to the scholarship trust fund—which I’m hoping you’ll administer, by the way. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Ali shook her head. The amount was something she could well afford, but she didn’t think she’d have the energy to tackle the kind of wholesale remodeling that would be necessary.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s far more house than I need.”

  “Please,” Arabella said quietly. “I’d really like for you to have it. And I know Mother would, too.”

  Ali stood up. “I’ll think about it,” she said. “But I’m not making any promises.”

  “Wait,” Arabella said. “Don’t go yet, please. I need to ask you. How’s your friend—the little girl who ran away?”

  “The guy who molested her is in jail,” Ali said. “And she wasn’t his only victim.”

  “So, did I help?” Arabella asked.

  “What do you mean, did you help?”

  “Did you tell her about me? Did you use me as an example so she’d go to the police?”

  Ali looked at Arabella—a pathetic, damaged, delusional old woman—and she could not deny her that one bit of satisfaction.

  “Yes,” Ali lied. “Yes, I did.”

  On the drive back to Sedona, Ali felt little satisfaction for having lied and allowed Arabella that one small triumph. Driving through town, Ali saw her mother’s Alero parked outside the Sugarloaf. The Bronco wasn’t there. Wanting some private time with Edie, Ali stopped and knocked.

  “Are you all right?” her mother asked as soon as she saw her face.

  “I saw Arabella Ashcroft today,” Ali said.

  “Oh
,” Edie said. “No wonder you look a little green around the gills.”

  “She wants me to buy her house.”

  “Arabella has a lot of nerve calling it her house,” Edie said. “She may have lived in it, but it was always her mother’s house. Anna Lee Ashcroft was a nice woman. And if you do decide to buy it, that’s how I’d think of it—as Anna Lee’s, not as Arabella’s.”

  Ali was quiet for a moment. Finally she said, “I never really knew that Aunt Evie and Arabella were good friends. From what Arabella told me, I guess they were. She said it was because of that friendship that she and her mother started the scholarship thing—that to begin with, the whole point was to benefit me.”

  “Arabella was always a conniver,” Edie said. “I think she was after your Aunt Evie and saw you as a way to get Evie into her clutches. She might have succeeded, too, but Anna Lee warned Evie away. And then she went ahead and set up the scholarship fund so other girls would benefit from it, too, not just you.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ali said. “What kind of clutches? What do you mean?”

  “Oh, forever more, Ali,” Edie said with a laugh. “Just because your Aunt Evie stayed in the closet all her life, don’t tell me you didn’t know about it.”

  Learning that bit of Aunt Evie’s history hit Ali hard. And knowing how Richard Masters and Curtis Uttley had used the Internet to victimize and ensnare Crystal didn’t help. The whole chain of events had cast a pall over Ali’s life and over her interest in cutloose as well. She could no longer look at what happened on the Internet as being harmless and she wasn’t sure if she was helping or making things worse.

  She drifted into a strange lassitude. Her interest in blogging seemed to have dissipated, but she had no idea what she was going to do instead. She did some random posting, but without having her heart in it. When she finally heard from Velma T, she read the message with a heavy heart.

  …so the second opinion concurs with the first one—that there’s not that much to be done for me. There are experimental protocols—expensive procedures—that I could possibly qualify for, but most of those wouldn’t be covered by insurance. So, my son and his golfing buddy doctor were right about my prognosis and their why-bother attitude, but I will insist to the death—which may be sooner than later—that they were ABSOLUTELY WRONG!!! not to tell me. It’s my life. My decision.

  So, here’s what I’m going to do. I’ve got that book about a thousand things to do before I die, and I’ve also looked into one of those luxury round-the-world tours that will hit a bunch of them at one fell swoop.There’s one that leaves Las Vegas, Nevada, on March first and lasts for twenty-five days. Private jets and first-class hotels all the way. By the time it’s over, if I’m not dead or dead broke, I should be close to it.

  Maybe, Ali thought, I was wrong to be worried about Velma’s financial situation. She continued reading:

  When I called to inquire about reservations, it turned out that there was only a single pair of accommodations left on the trip. Since I was a single, I thought that left me out, but then the reservations lady came up with a wonderful idea. It seems there was another person who had inquired about that same trip, another single, who’s a retired schoolteacher from Washington State. So we ended up booking our trip together. Her name is Maddy Watkins. She’s quite a bit younger than I am, but we’ve been e-mailing back and forth, and she sounds delightful.

  Thank you for encouraging me not to stand around waiting for life or death to happen. If I die somewhere along the way, my son can damned well pay to have me shipped home. And if I get home and I’m still feeling well enough and have any money left over, I may book a cruise, too.

  I miss your blog. I know something bad must have happened, and I know you’re not ready to say what it is. Just know that you’ve made a huge difference in my life and probably in lots of other lives, too.

  Love,

  VELMA T IN LAGUNA

  On a sunny evening in March, Dave Holman came by for dinner. While Athena and Chris laughed and cooked in the kitchen, Ali and Dave sat outside on the front porch on the swing, sipping some of Paul Grayson’s very expensive wine. They were spending more and more time together these days. Ali wasn’t sure where the relationship was going, but for now she was comfortable with it.

  “The custody hearing’s next week,” Dave said, draping one arm around her shoulder. “We’ve hammered out an arrangement that seems reasonable, and we’re pretty sure the judge will go along with it. Richey will be a senior next year, and he’ll stay in Vegas to finish high school. After that he’s planning on joining the Marines.”

  “Like father like son,” Ali said.

  Dave nodded. “And the girls will spend half the summer there, then they’ll come live with me and go to school here. They’re thrilled. Of course, it means I’ll have to find somewhere else to live, but with Roxie paying child support…”

  Ali was astonished. “She’s agreed to pay child support?”

  “That’s what I said. It’s a reasonable arrangement. And I have to give Gary Whitman credit. He’s the one who came up with the idea and convinced Roxie that it was doable. After what happened to Crystal, I think he wants the girls out of Vegas even more than I do. When Richard Masters agreed to a plea bargain and Crystal no longer faced having to testify, Gary was so relieved that I thought he was going to burst into tears.”

  Ali said nothing. After a pause, Dave added, “It really chaps my butt.”

  “What does?”

  “Gary and I aren’t ever going to be friends,” Dave said. “But he isn’t that bad a guy. Maybe he’s not the best businessman who ever came down the pike, but he’s a better husband to Roxie than I ever was, and she’s happier with him than she was with me. I just have to make sure he’s not a better father.”

  Again Ali had nothing to say. She found that happened to her often these days.

  “Speaking of fathers,” Dave continued, “I saw yours today. Bob’s worried about you.”

  “He is?” Ali asked.

  “And so am I,” Dave said. “You’re depressed, Ali. You’re not yourself. You’re not even blogging anymore. You’ve been through a lot. Have you ever heard of post–traumatic stress disorder?”

  “Of course, I’ve heard of PTSD,” Ali said dismissively, “but it’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “Yes, it does,” Dave argued. “Your father and I have both been around it. We know the signs. You need to see someone. You need help.”

  “No, I don’t,” Ali declared, ducking out from beneath Dave’s arm. “All I need is some sleep. You and Dad need to mind your own business. And since I’m not feeling very sociable at the moment, maybe you should just go.”

  “No deal, Mom,” Chris said, materializing silently in the open doorway behind them. “Dinner’s on the table, and Athena and I say Dave isn’t leaving.”

  The next day, it was all Ali could do to drag herself out of bed. By midafternoon, she was still in her robe and worrying about getting dressed before Chris came home from school when the doorbell rang. When she looked through the peephole, she was surprised to find Leland Brooks standing there in all his rhinestone cowboy glory. He looked tanned and fit and surprisingly chipper. The Rolls, shiny as ever, was parked in the driveway behind him.

  At first Ali wasn’t going to open the door. He rang the bell again though, and she opened the door.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for dropping by this way,” he said. “I came over from Prescott to check on the house, and I wanted to see you.”

  Grudgingly, Ali invited him inside.

  “I’ve had a letter from Miss Arabella,” he said. “Several of them, in fact, all of them asking that I intercede with you on her behalf and beg you to reconsider your decision about purchasing her place.”

  “I thought that was all set,” Ali said. “I thought a developer was going to take it and tear it down.”

  “He thought so, too,” Brooks said, “but that was before some of the neighbors got together an
d had it placed on the National Historical Record. The house is considered second-generation Frank Lloyd Wright and all that. Then there was another possible buyer, but his offer fell through. The house failed the inspection—rather miserably, I’m afraid, and his bank wouldn’t approve it.”

  “What does any of this have to do with me?”

  “Miss Arabella wanted me to let you know that we’ll take less than she told you earlier, although I’m not sure what that amount was. She said that if you’ll make an offer somewhere in that neighborhood, as long as the offer is from you, the real estate agent and I are both directed to accept it. She also said your offer should include the house’s contents. That way, when you refurb it, you’ll be able to use as many of Mrs. Ashcroft’s original furnishings as you wish. You’ll be able to bring the house back to what it once was—what it never was with Miss Arabella living in it.”

  Ali was tired—more tired than she’d ever been in her life. “Look,” she said. “I don’t really care what Miss Arabella wants.”

  “It’s what I want, too,” Brooks said. “And I’d be more than willing to come help oversee the remodeling project. I know where the original blueprints are, and believe me, I know what’s wrong and what needs fixing. I suppose you could say, in a manner of speaking, that I know where the bodies are buried.”

  With his eyes twinkling, Brooks seemed to be waiting for Ali to smile, but that was more than she could muster.

  “I’ve spoken to Mr. Holman about this,” he said finally. “He thinks it would be a good idea for you to take on a project.”

  More meddling on Dave’s part. Ali was suddenly angrier than she had been in months. “This is none of his business!” she exclaimed. “And it’s none of yours, either.”

  “Oh, but it is,” Leland Brooks said. “Has anyone mentioned to you that you look quite dreadful?”

  “How kind of you to point that out,” Ali said.

  “Here it is, late afternoon, and you’re not even dressed.”