by Lisa Jackson
“My aunt Catherine wants me to find Elizabeth before anything bad can happen to her.”
“She in some kind of trouble?”
“Not exactly. Maybe. We all are.”
“Who’s we?”
“My family,” Ravinia said reluctantly. “Well, mainly Aunt Catherine, but my sisters, too.”
Glancing at his watch, he said, “I can look into this tomorrow . . . er, wait, make that Monday.” He remembered his promise to spend the afternoon with Pamela, maybe take in a movie, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. How he’d let himself slip from occasionally dating the woman to becoming her weekend partner was something that irritated the hell out of him. What was worse, he only had himself to blame.
“Monday? No. I can’t wait that long.” Ravinia was firm, her small jaw set. “Can’t you get on the Internet and look them up?”
“That’s a first step.”
“Well?”
He choked back a laugh. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” To hell with Pamela.
“How about later today? After your job.” Ravinia flicked a glance at his clothes. “Surveillance.”
He almost said, “Maybe,” but then shook his head. “I don’t know how long this is going to be, and you and I haven’t talked price yet. You already think I’m too steep and I don’t want to take all your money and keep you from a warm bed tonight.”
“I just don’t see how it can take you very long, so I don’t expect it to cost much.”
“You never know.” He straightened and waited for her to get out of the chair, which she did so reluctantly.
“I’ll come with you,” she said.
“Dream on.” If nothing else, the kid had moxie. “I’m sorry. But what I do can be dangerous, and . . . no. Just no. I work solo.”
“Is it more dangerous than sleeping on the street in front of your door?”
“You really wouldn’t do that.”
“I’ve slept in that park in Santa Monica above the ocean for three nights,” she said with a certain amount of pride.
“Not my problem, Ravinia,” he said, though he did feel a jab of guilt. She was barely more than a kid. Somewhere under twenty, if he had to guess. He walked past her toward the back door and waited impatiently as she slowly sauntered along, deliberately taking her time.
“You’re starting to piss me off,” he remarked.
“Yeah, well, sorry,” she said, clearly unrepentant.
“What’s your story?” he asked, the question out before he could even ask himself why he was asking when he had so little time.
“My story?”
“You’re going to play coy?” he asked, seeing her tense up.
“It’s a long story. I can tell it to you while you’re watching whoever you’re watching.”
“No.” They were finally outside the back door and he tested the handle and made sure it was locked.
“Oh, come on. How are you watching these people? Standing outside? Sitting in your car?”
“I’m in my car. For hours sometimes.” He added dampeningly, “And nothing happens.”
“You’re just some guy in a car? What? With a pair of binoculars? If I’m with you, it’ll be less weird.”
She wasn’t wrong, but he was kind of surprised she understood it so well. “It’s a stakeout. It could last hours. If you have to go to the bathroom . . .” He spread his hands even while he was asking himself why he was still talking to her.
“I can take care of myself.”
In that, he believed her. She had a barbed-wire tough attitude that was in direct juxtaposition to her small frame, wide eyes, and full lips. He had no designs on her; he was pretty sure she was young enough to be his daughter, and he wasn’t interested in her romantically, anyway. But she intrigued him and that was a rare thing these days because he was jaded, tired, and pretty well convinced the human race wasn’t worth a goddamn. He was, in fact, a cliché of all the old-time world-weary PI’s.
“I must be out of my mind,” he muttered as he turned toward the rental Sonata and yanked the keys from his pocket. He hit the remote to unlock the doors.
Ravinia climbed in the passenger seat without being invited and buckled herself in.
Chapter 8
Spending the day with Marg and Buddy Sorenson had been pure torture. Buddy was full of bonhomie and jokes and tales of deep-sea fishing with his pals, while Marg wanted the most lavish home for the least amount of money, and she wanted Elizabeth to find it for her toute de suite. Marg believed, somehow, that it was Elizabeth’s fault that she’d lost that first house when in fact Marg had simply dallied too long in making an offer. Part of the problem was Buddy. He had almost less interest in what home caught his wife’s fancy than he did in the ballet, which they’d apparently gone to once in their long marriage and which he brought up from time to time as the dullest experience of his life.
“Please tell me again how hard it is to dance that damn dance,” he would remind his wife every time she would complain about how she’d tried to introduce him to culture outside his world of fishing, boating, and general good old boy backslapping.
“Ballet is hard,” she would snap.
After the spiral into that conversation, Buddy confided to Elizabeth, “I worked on an oil rig when I was younger. Now that’s hard.”
“No one’s disputing that, Buddy,” Marg clipped. “All I want is for you to keep an open mind about the house.”
“How many millions is it?” he asked.
“We can afford it,” she assured him. “Elizabeth is going to work her magic and get them to come down to a reasonable price.”
“We?” Buddy asked, raising his brows at his wife who gave him a chilly glare.
“Don’t put too much faith in my magic,” Elizabeth told her. Unless it’s dark magic, she thought.
As Marg and Buddy haggled and sparred, Elizabeth drove them to the four grand homes Marg had winnowed down on her list. She kept whining about the house that had been stolen out from under them, but Elizabeth didn’t respond to her, knowing Marg hadn’t really liked that one until it was out of reach. Then, of course, it had become “perfect,” as Marg seemed to have forgotten that she’d said it needed a major remodel of the kitchen, three baths, and master suite.
Elizabeth wondered if Marg would ever pick a place. The woman liked looking, not buying, and Buddy certainly didn’t want to make the leap from the mansion they already lived in. Though Elizabeth had a headache from all their bickering, and sometimes she wanted to commit hari-kari rather than listen to them one more second, staying at home and listening to her own thoughts wasn’t that much better of an option.
As Marg and Buddy wandered up one side of the entry’s double stairway with its ornate leaf and branch wrought-iron design, she felt her fears and doubts creeping back in. As had become her habit, she went through her affirmations again. She was just like all the other moms in her Moms Group. She was going to join the PTA this fall when Chloe started kindergarten at Willow Park Elementary. She was a Realtor at Suncrest Realty, not just an assistant anymore, and, courtesy of Mazie Ferguson, she had an impressive client list. She went to a yoga class most Tuesday and Thursday mornings with friends from the Moms Group and they all drank Jamba Juice smoothies together after Tuesday’s class. She was married to a corporate attorney who was strikingly good-looking and on a fast track to make partner in his law firm.
Was married . . . she reminded herself with a jolt, surprised she’d let that last one slip through. Swallowing, she revised that last thought. She was a single mother, making a good living for her well-adjusted daughter.
Who has strange fainting spells with no root cause.
“Elizabeth!” Marg Sorenson called down to her from the second floor causing Elizabeth to jump. “Come up here a moment.”
She trudged up the right-hand stairway and met Marg and Buddy in the master bedroom, one of six. A chandelier hanging over the bed and built in cabinetry was fashioned in a baroque style that s
eemed ill-suited to the rest of the beautifully appointed house. In fact, so much carved woodwork and inlaid silver filigree took the eye away from the cathedral ceiling and massive windows with their view north, up the coastline.
“Don’t you love this?” Marg asked.
“The view is spectacular,” Elizabeth said.
“The cabinets, my dear. Is there any way to dome this room?”
“Dome it?”
“Christ, woman, you’d have to change the roof line,” Buddy grumbled. “Do you know how much that would cost?”
“You just don’t know design,” Marg sniffed.
Elizabeth said, “You’d really need to talk to an architect about that.”
“We’re not going to goddamn dome it,” Buddy growled, stalking out of the room.
“You see what he’s like?” Marg said on a huge sigh.
“Maybe this isn’t the right property for you,” Elizabeth suggested.
Marg’s face clouded. “Half the time I think you’re trying to talk me out of things. Maybe we should go back to that one with the little elves.”
Elizabeth kept her expression neutral. One of the houses she’d inherited with Mazie’s client list was a two-story, near-mansion Tudor right on the ocean with massive grounds and a portico. Mrs. Stafford, co-owner of the property with her husband, was an aficionado of Tolkien’s The Hobbit, apparently, because she’d made a crèche on the edge of the lawn populated with Hobbits and other Tolkien creatures. Though both Mazie and Elizabeth had suggested the display be removed while the house was for sale, Mrs. Stafford had stamped down her Ferragamo heel on the idea, so the crèche remained . . . and had been dubbed by the agents at Suncrest Realty as “Staffordshire.” Marg had liked the house and ignored the tableau, and Buddy had made comments about the owners’ state of mental health, so, of course, they’d submitted no offer. To date Staffordshire remained unsold. As the Staffords themselves were currently touring Europe, Elizabeth tried to swing by and make sure everything was secure and locked up tight as often as she could, and now she made a mental note to add that to her to-do list, although the way things were going she could be showing it to Marg and Buddy again very soon.
Marg and Buddy sniped at each other the rest of the time and Elizabeth was relieved when she could take them back to the office and herd them to their own vehicle. She could feel her tense shoulders relax as they climbed into their Lexus and she waved good-bye.
“How’d it go?” Pat asked brightly as Elizabeth pushed open the glass door to Suncrest Realty.
“Better than expected.” She wasn’t about to give anything away to the blabbermouth receptionist. Pat, blond and efficient and a fashionista who always dressed to the nines, tens, and beyond seemed to consider it part of her job to spread gossip along with sorting the mail, taking phone calls, and dealing with walk-in clients.
“Did they choose a house?” Pat asked, elbows on the reception desk, hands clasped. “Marg and Buddy? Did you find them one?”
“Still narrowing down the list.” Elizabeth walked away from her as quickly as possible and into Mazie’s office, actually her office if she wanted it, but she’d spent most of her time sharing cubicles in the large room at the end of the hall and hadn’t quite changed her habits yet. She picked up a couple files, then headed to the cubicles, feeling more comfortable in one of the squeaky office chairs rather than the supple leather one Mazie had special-ordered.
Plucking her cell phone from her purse, she checked her messages and found one from Vivian asking her and Chloe to come over for dinner that night. Elizabeth smiled faintly, touched. Her friends had been rallying around her this week and though Chloe struggled to get along with Vivian’s daughter Lissa, she called Vivian back and accepted the offer. “What can I bring?”
“Just yourself. So glad you’re coming! I’ve ordered from Gina’s and we’ll get the kids pizza, too. I invited a few other people, too.”
“Oh?” Elizabeth’s heart sank at the thought of a crowd.
“Just some of our group,” Vivian said breezily, “and Bill will be here, of course. See you at six?”
“Six . . . sure. Thanks.”
Bill was Vivian’s husband. Tall and athletic, a golfer with salt-and-pepper hair he kept clipped short, Bill had been to a couple events at the preschool. Elizabeth didn’t know him very well, but then when their group got together it was mainly just the women. She wasn’t sure she was up for a big dinner party, but she’d already committed and really didn’t know how to say no.
She worked for several hours in relative quiet. When she’d finished a couple phone calls and e-mails, setting up appointments for later in the week, she headed outside again.
Of course, Pat was lying in wait, eager to ask her more questions about her clients and their personal lives. Elizabeth murmured something about being late and hurried out the door even though she sensed Pat’s seething resentment. For what? Not gossiping with her? Not hanging out with her? Not sharing information about other Realtors and clients? As she walked to her SUV, she felt Pat’s gaze boring into the back of her head and a glance over her shoulder confirmed the sensation as Pat, cell phone to her ear, was glowering through the window.
Get a life, Elizabeth thought and wondered who the receptionist was talking to. Not that it mattered. She slid inside the warm interior, slipped a pair of sunglasses over the bridge of her nose and switched on the Escape’s engine.
She thought about Pat as she drove home. And though she switched on the radio, she didn’t hear the music and drove through the familiar streets by rote. The receptionist’s nosiness irked Elizabeth, and she told herself that next time she would use her key to enter through the back door off the alley, just to avoid her and all those prying questions. If only someone else had Pat’s job. Someone less . . . annoying. But there was probably no way Pat would resign. She loved her position at the company too much.
If only she would just quit.
Hearing her thoughts, Elizabeth caught herself up short. Was that wishing harm on someone? Hoping they would relinquish their job?
You can’t think harm to someone, she reminded herself harshly as she slowed for a red light, then cracked the windows to let in some fresh air. It’s not about you. Besides, Barbara had flown back to Buffalo and as far as Elizabeth knew nothing bad had happened to her sister-in-law despite the fact that Elizabeth had certainly spent this very long week annoyed at her.
Still, there’s no need to entertain such negative thoughts toward Pat, she thought, slowing for another red light. Better to err on the side of caution, ignore people’s irritating habits, and generally have a sunnier disposition. Condemning other people’s behaviors certainly didn’t help her. And wasn’t that what positive thinking was all about, anyway?
Pat’s still a pain in the butt.
“So are a lot of people,” she reminded herself.
Her cell rang just as she waited at the light. Quickly, she put in her ear bud, then plugged the cord into her cell and answered before she checked the number.
“Hello?” Then she saw the number. Detective Bette Thronson’s cell phone. Damn.
“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Ellis,” the cop said, then added, “This is Detective Thronson. I wonder if I might have a word with you.”
Oh, great.
“I’m . . . I’m driving.”
“Not now. I could stop by this evening if that’s convenient?”
“No . . . no. I’m sorry. I’m going out.” Elizabeth’s eyes were on traffic, but her pulse was thundering, adrenaline rushing through her bloodstream, her insides rattled. She stretched her fingers over the wheel just as the light turned green and she stepped on the gas pedal.
“Ahh . . . maybe tomorrow?” the detective asked.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” Elizabeth asked impatiently.
“I’d like to discuss a few things. . . .”
“Can’t you just tell me on the phone?” She heard herself and inwardly snorted. So much for t
he pep talk on having a better attitude.
Pretend like you care....
“You said you were driving.”
“I’m using my hands-free device. I can hear you just fine.” It was better to get this over with, right? Move forward?
“Okay,” the detective said, her voice sliding into cool, neutral tones. “I interviewed the hotel clerk at the Tres Brisas and he gave me a description of a woman who’d been seen at the hotel a number of times while your husband and Mrs. Bellhard were there.”
“Oh?”
“Let’s see,” the cop said as if she were searching her notes even though Elizabeth thought they were probably right in front of her. “Yes. A blond woman in her mid- to late twenties who wears her hair pulled up into a messy bun.”
Elizabeth’s gaze traveled to the rearview mirror and she looked at her own reflection. Detective Thronson could have been describing her. Heart pounding, she asked, “Who is it? The blonde?”
“Don’t know yet. She doesn’t appear to have checked into the hotel. The management doesn’t video their guests, so we don’t have an actual picture of her.”
Elizabeth’s throat was dry as dust as she eased into the slower lane. Telling herself to stay calm, she asked, “What does she have to do with my husband?”
“We’re just following leads. It might not have anything to do with him.”
“But you think it does. And you think his death was something more than just an accident, don’t you?”
The detective hesitated briefly before admitting, “The reports that his vehicle was ‘racing’ with another seem to be consistent.”
A dark SUV, like your Escape . . .
Elizabeth’s palms sweated over the wheel. She wanted to tell the detective that the police department was barking up the wrong tree and loudly proclaim her innocence. She hadn’t been anywhere near San Diego the day Court died. She’d been in Irvine and Newport Beach, showing property . . . well, most of the time, anyway. Could this detective really think Elizabeth was involved? Don’t even go there, she warned herself, but felt her blood pressure and worry escalate. With an effort at concentrating on the traffic, she forced out, “So, what does that mean?”