by Carolyn Hart
Garrett glared at Billy. “Nobody told me there was somebody else in the house besides the ones downstairs and Mrs. Dumaney.”
Annie didn’t try to explain that it should be Miss Dumaney or Mrs. Ladson. The fine points of Hollywood address wouldn’t impress him.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Billy pulled a notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Everybody was milling around when we got here. Nobody mentioned a kid.”
“A kid?” Garrett lost his curt, hurried look. “How old?”
“Fifteen. She’s been by herself ever since they found Happy.” Annie didn’t like thinking about those two hours. Why hadn’t any of the others thought about Rachel?
Garrett’s round face creased in a frown. Obviously he was as unhappy as Annie that Rachel had been unnoticed for two hours. Garrett prided himself on taking charge and he must have felt that this morning’s investigation was far from controlled. “Okay, Annie. You better check. Billy, hang close.”
Annie understood Garrett’s order. This was a murder investigation and he was in charge. Annie didn’t mind Billy coming with her. Billy was a stepdad who loved his wife’s son. Billy and Kevin fished and camped and kicked a soccer ball. Billy would help if he could, and there was no reason to care if Billy overheard what she and Rachel said.
Garrett watched as they walked across the landing to the third-floor stairs. They passed an open door. Annie darted a swift glance, then wished she hadn’t. A miniature Christmas tree had tumbled from the end table next to a sofa that had once added charm to a sitting room. The sofa’s fabric was a butter-yellow fabric accented by full-size red roosters. The red accents were picked up by the red, green and white rag rugs and a red and white quilt on one wall. Happy’s body slumped stiffly at one end of the sofa. The maroon of drying blood splotched her battered head, her dressing gown, the sofa and the floor.
Annie carried the devastating picture with her as she and Billy silently climbed to the third floor.
Max walked the length of the terrace room and studied the tangle of ferns and shrubs and sweet-smelling trees. Joan Ladson stood on tiptoe to clip a dangling frond from a banana tree. She shot an uneasy look at Max.
Max gave her a reassuring smile, then turned to Wayne. Max pointed to a flagstone path that curved into the greenery. “Does that go through to the dining room?”
Wayne nodded. He walked toward Max, smiling. “Yes. It takes most people a half dozen visits to the house to get it straight. It’s quite a house, isn’t?” He spoke with evident pride. “It was Dad’s pride and joy. You know who my dad was?” Wayne didn’t bother to wait for an answer. “Dad made the greatest adventure flicks ever. He loved secret tunnels and caves and surprises. Like the jungle.” He laughed aloud. “You ever been to Clifton’s Cafeteria in L.A.? Rocks and a waterfall and lots of greenery. Dad loved to take us there when we were kids. But he didn’t do it on our account. No way. I’m surprised Dad didn’t have a waterfall built in here. He about drove the architects crazy. They wanted the commission, but they fought his plans all the way. Four architects. When the second one walked out, they say he built a raft and set sail for the Caribbean, decided hammerheads were better company than clients. You know what”—Wayne’s voice was pleased—“I think somewhere Dad’s got the last laugh. It’s a hell of a house. Have you ever seen it from the water when the sun’s coming up? It’s like a huge gaudy ring on a showgirl’s finger. You know it’s vulgar, but you damn sure can’t take your eyes off of it. There’s something to be said for vulgarity, you know. Crude exuberance has it all over staid respectability.” He looked faintly wistful. “That was sure as hell true of my dad. He died the way he lived, flying a small plane into a storm. He shouldn’t have, but he did. The story of Dad’s life. The odd thing is, Marguerite understood that. I wouldn’t have expected it of her. It’s damn hard for Marguerite ever to separate any scene from herself long enough to see if there is anyone else present. But when he built this house, she supported him all the way. That’s when I knew she really was nuts about Dad.”
Max glanced toward the French doors. “How many entrances are there?”
Wayne’s face sobered. “Yeah. That’s a good question now, isn’t it?” He looked sharply at Pudge Laurance.
Pudge still stood near the archway. He watched Max, a flicker of interest in his eyes.
Max said briskly, “The layout of the house may be important to others besides Pudge.”
Wayne raised a skeptical eyebrow. “An unknown intruder? Bushy-haired, no doubt.”
“Bushy-haired?” Joan repeated blankly.
Pirelli cleared his throat. “The captain said no discussion of the murder.”
“Right,” Max called out easily. As long as Max kept the conversation confined to the structure of the house, Pirelli wouldn’t interfere. As for Wayne, Max didn’t believe in bushy-haired intruders, either, but it wouldn’t do any harm to let him and everyone else in the room believe that possibility accounted for Max’s interest in the layout of the house.
Max glanced around the room. “Any scratch paper around here?”
Wayne nodded toward a bridge table. “There should be a score pad there.”
Max strolled to the table, pulled out a side drawer. He picked up a tablet. “Do you mind if I use this?”
Wayne came up beside him. “What are you going to do?”
“I thought it might be useful to sketch the house, where the rooms are and the stairs and the doors. Although”—Max’s smile was rueful—“I’m not too clear on the layout yet. Let’s see, the front entrance leads to the reception area, and that’s just through there.” Max pointed toward the archway where Pirelli stood, still listening but clearly more relaxed.
Across the room, Alice Schiller moved restively in a wicker chair.
Wayne held out his hand. “I can do that.” He pulled out a chair and dropped into it. He ripped loose a sheet, and began to draw in a quick, fluid motion, his face absorbed and interested.
Max slipped into the chair to Wayne’s left. Joan sidled near enough to watch. Wayne finished the first drawing and peeled off another page.
Terry ambled over from the bar. “You’ve left out the tower.”
Wayne shook his head. “The entrance is on the second floor.”
Terry pointed at the first-floor plan. “Don’t forget the rope bridge, buddy. I think the rope bridge was the reason Architectural Digest refused to do the house. Marguerite went into a decline for weeks.”
Wayne laughed and added a rope bridge to the first-floor plan. “You got it wrong, Terry. They didn’t cotton to the fake cave on the front lawn. But they probably never liked Dad’s movies, either.”
Terry smothered a sneeze. “Remember his last movie? A jungle, an overgrown temple, a jade statue hidden in a well and a big son of a bitch of a dragon.”
“A dragon in a cave. Dad had a hell of a good time. All he lacked was Harrison Ford as the lead. But that one grossed eighty million.” Wayne grinned and finished the third floor, then got another sheet for the fourth. Last of all he drew the front of the house, including the glass whale and the cave with its resident dragon. He handed the sheaf of drawings to Max.
Max scanned the pages swiftly, appearing to give equal attention to each floor. But the second-floor sketch was the treasure. Yes, Pudge was across the hall from Happy, but Wayne, Donna, Marguerite and Alice were also on that floor. Joan was in a guest room on the third floor across from Rachel’s room. Terry was staying on his cabin cruiser. Before Max tucked the pages in his pocket, he counted aloud, “One, two…Yes, I see. There are four entrances to the house.” He looked at Wayne. “Is that right?”
“At least.” Wayne pointed at the row of French doors. “They all open. Plus there’s a door from the veranda into the terrace room, another veranda entrance to the jungle, and a back door to the kitchen.”
“And the front door,” Joan added.
Terry volunteered. “And more French doors into the informal living room.” He looked at
Wayne. “Who locks up at night?”
Alice Schiller pushed up from her chair. She paced toward them. “The doors were locked. I lock them every night. This morning, after Wayne called, I let the police in at the front door and it was still chained.”
“I went down to the garden by that door. It was latched.” Joan pointed at the door at the south end of the terrace room. “As far as I know, the French doors were locked.”
“So, we few, we happy few,” Terry said, his voice silky.
In a suddenly cold and ugly pause, footsteps sounded near the arch.
Annie hadn’t had to guess at Rachel’s room. She was glad because even genial Billy might have wondered if Annie hadn’t known which room belonged to her stepsister. She knocked again while looking into the sensual face of Leonardo di Caprio in the full-length poster on the door. It seemed forever that she had stood there, knocking and calling. “Rachel, please, it’s Annie.” Had it been five minutes? Ten? Once Rachel answered, her voice thick. “Go away. Just go away.”
Billy whispered, “Want me to see if I can get a key somewhere?”
Annie glanced at him, shook her head. She spoke again. “Rachel, my mother died when I was your age. Please, honey, let me in. Rachel, don’t stay by yourself. I know how you feel.” That couldn’t be true in whole, but certainly it was true in part. “Please, Rachel. Rachel, it’s not your fault.” That was the terrible ache that others never understood, the awful sickening feeling that if you had only done something different at some time in some way, death would not have come. “Rachel, your mom loved you more than anybody in the world.”
Abruptly, the door swung open. Rachel’s skinny face was splotched and puffy. Red-rimmed brown eyes stared at Annie in piteous intensity. Her lips quivered. She gave a choked cry and plunged into Annie’s arms.
Annie held her tight, pressed her face against Rachel’s tousled curls, feeling the sting of her own tears as she grieved for Rachel and remembered long-ago grief that still scalded her heart.
Although Marguerite was accompanied only by Pete Garrett, their arrival transformed the terrace room, made it seem small and quivering with energy. Marguerite’s royal blue silk slack suit rustled as she strode past Pirelli and Pudge, ignoring them. Her grief-stricken visage had given way to intense concentration, her bold features taut and severe.
Alice hurried toward her. “Marguerite, I tried to come to you.”
Marguerite embraced her longtime companion. “Our loss,” she murmured. A deep breath, then she stepped past Alice, moving into a pool of sunlight near the French doors. She stood for a moment, head bowed, auburn hair richly red in the sunlight, a strand falling across one cheek. Slowly, she lifted her face. Even though sunlight can be cruel, magnifying lines, emphasizing the ravages of age, Marguerite’s haggard beauty was not diminished.
Max folded his arms and prepared to be entertained. He wondered if Marguerite was aware of the quiet resistance of her audience. Joan observed her former stepmother-in-law as she might note an aphid on a rose. A quiver of skepticism crossed Wayne’s narrow face. Terry rocked back on his heels, his earlier, malicious amusement replaced by uneasiness. Donna’s thin lips tightened. Pudge dismissed Marguerite with a glance. Alice looked wan and weary. The dark-haired domestic quietly chewed gum.
Pete Garrett’s round face hardened. “Ladies and gentlemen, I appreciate your patience. I have spoken with Mrs. Dumaney—”
Marguerite’s hand touched his arm. “I shall tell them.” She looked at each in turn, a piercing gaze, and waited until all was quiet.
Marguerite clapped her hands. “Dear hearts, we must do our duty. Our duty is simple. We must”—her voice lifted into a clarion tone—“put aside our grief for the moment. I know you all will be reassured that I have had a conference with the authorities. We shall bend every effort of will to apprehend the person who so cruelly wrested life from our dear Happy.”
Garrett moved restively. “Mrs. Dumaney—”
Marguerite took two steps forward. The simple movement relegated Garrett to the background. Once again the focus of all eyes, she lifted her hands, turned them out. “I have given Chief Garrett permission to search the house. Who knows what might be found that will help in this investigation. He has already searched my rooms. I know none of you will object to a search of your own.”
Fifteen
“YOU WON’T GO away?” Rachel stood by the bathroom door, clutching her clothes.
“I’ll be right here.” Annie smiled. “I promise.”
Rachel left the bathroom door ajar. Annie dropped onto a patchwork sofa, squares of turquoise and amber overlaid by circles of lime and marigold. She leaned back on the comfortable cushion, weary to the bone.
Rachel’s beamed room, with a sloped ceiling to the south, glowed with colors reminiscent of New Mexico, the walls a dusty peach, Navajo throw rugs in scarlet, black, sand and gray, a rustic four-poster bed made of bleached wood bone white as a cattle skull. Donkeys laden with brightly colored pottery marched across the sandstone comforter.
The room was divided by the sofa into a sleeping area and a cozy nook with a TV, stereo, computer, printer, bookcases and—Annie counted—a stack of fourteen board games, everything from Pin the Tail on the Donkey to Monopoly to Scrabble. Chinese checkers were atop one bookcase. A snowman piñata hung from the central beam, a red porkpie hat, round black eyes, pink buttons, green boots.
A sweet and childlike room with only hints of a girl halfway to womanhood, the fashion magazines splayed open, the clutter of makeup bottles and brushes on the dressing table, a pair of high heels tossed in a corner.
Listening to the hiss of the shower, Annie forced herself to think. Persuading Rachel to shower and dress was the first step on a long road. Next was breakfast though Annie knew that Rachel would push most of the food away. Annie glanced at her watch. Just past eleven. Rachel was still grappling with the initial shock of her mother’s death. She’d not asked any questions yet. Those questions were sure to come. Moreover, Pete Garrett would talk to Rachel. Annie was sure Pete would be gentle, but he would have his own questions, several that Annie imagined only too clearly:
Was there any disagreement between your mother and your stepfather?
What was the nature of their quarrel?
Annie pressed her hands against her temples. Rachel had no inkling that Pudge was a suspect. Annie looked at Billy, who was waiting patiently in the hall. There was no way to warn Rachel. Besides, what could be said? How could Annie explain what was as yet unexplainable? Why had Pudge run away from Happy’s room carrying something and hurried through the garden and taken the rowboat? How did Happy’s blood stain his pants leg? Why did he remain silent? Annie knew all the questions, but she had no answers. She pushed up from the couch, her mouth and throat dry. How would Rachel react when she understood the import of those questions? Her mother dead, her adored stepfather under suspicion of the brutal crime…was there any way to shield Rachel?
Billy looked through the open doorway, his gentle face kind, but his eyes alert.
Annie knew he would call her back if she stepped into the bathroom, closed the door. “We’ll go downstairs when Rachel’s dressed. She needs some breakfast.” And maybe there would be a moment alone, a chance to warn Rachel.
The shower cut off. The stall door banged. In a moment, the hair dryer buzzed. Rachel was brushing her hair, the ebony curls lustrous and fine, when she stepped into the bedroom. Her face was puffy and splotched and she looked very small in an oversize red-and-green-striped T-shirt and floppy denim pants, but there was an air of determination about her. Perhaps Billy, knowing Pirelli was on duty downstairs, would simply stand at the top of the steps, watch them descend. Maybe Annie could tell Rachel not to mention Pudge’s quarrel with Happy, though no doubt others in the household had already reported that encounter to Garrett.
Before Annie could speak, Rachel burst out, “I need to talk to the police. I know who killed Mother.” At Annie’s shocked look, Rachel nodde
d her head vigorously. “I started thinking. I stood there in the water and it was like my mind opened up and everything came clear. I mean, why would anybody kill Mother? Then I knew.” She bolted toward the door, looked up at Billy. “Are you the police?” Her voice quavered with eagerness.
Billy’s face was serious and kind. “I’m Sergeant Cameron, miss. Chief Garrett will be glad to talk to you. If you’d like, we can go downstairs and find him. He’ll be glad to hear what you have to tell us.”
“I know what happened.” She looked back. “Annie, come on.” Rachel headed for the stairs.
Annie followed, Billy close behind.
A brisk voice rose up the stairwell. “…want to be clear, sir, that our search is with your permission and that you agree there has been no coercion of any kind.”
Annie grabbed Rachel’s arm. “That’s Chief Garrett.” When they reached the second floor, the hallway was crowded, the chief, Pudge, and Max standing in front of a door across the hall from Happy’s quarters.
Happy’s door was closed and sealed, a police tape strung in an X across the panel. Annie realized the initial investigation was complete, but Garrett had likely sealed the door with the intention of bringing in a bloodstain expert. The police tape also meant Happy’s body had been removed.
Rachel stared at the closed door, her eyes huge, her lips quivering. Annie slipped her arm around Rachel’s thin shoulders. Pudge was facing the door to his room and didn’t see them.
Garrett nodded toward Pudge. “If you will open the door—”
Rachel pulled away from Annie, darted across the hall and flung herself at Pudge. “Oh, Pudge, Pudge,” and she began to cry.
Pudge wrapped his arms around her. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” He looked down at her dark curls, his eyes wet, his face crumpled.