“But, Dad!” Kirby’s eyes showed the kind of raw pain a twelve-year-old’s face can still show, before life teaches him how to bury it away completely and the man he becomes grows accomplished at never revealing it again.
No one saw me standing with my back flat against the dark hall wall, thank goodness, and I ducked quickly into the kitchen before Kirby ran past me and out into the garden party.
Wesley was coming toward the house as I emerged.
“Kirby just made the announcement,” he said, but I could tell that by the reaction among the party guests.
There had been a sudden hush followed by furious movement around the lunch tables. In a few seconds, the casual luncheon had turned into an emergency military retreat. Many of the Woodburn ladies must have suddenly discovered immediate engagements that had to be tended. The flower arrangements were collected and departures were rapid.
Zenya saw me coming out on the lawn and separated from the friend or two who had stayed behind to soothe her. Two other women were on their cell phones, speaking to their attorney husbands, lining up representation for Bill Knight before he even had a chance to make it to the police station.
“Madeline,” she said, her face as beautiful as ever, but shocked and disbelieving. “Did you hear? It’s awful. Everyone is leaving. I don’t know what to do.”
“We’ll clean up here,” I said, feeling so sorry for this woman. For this family. But I wasn’t responsible for the crimes her husband had committed. I looked away, as more guests made speedy exits. Even so, I felt a sort of tangential guilt at having tracked the insurance plot down to her husband and delivering his head on a platter to the cops. Could she really care about Bill Knight? Dex might not know anything about her feelings at all.
“What am I going to do, Maddie?”
“You’ll do fine,” I said. “I think your husband may have been capable of some very unpleasant things, Zenya. You may not know him as well as you thought.”
“Bad things? Like what? You think he stole the etchings?”
I nodded.
Zenya thought it over. “I had a long talk with Dexter last night and he agrees with you. I told him I couldn’t believe it, but now…But now even if it’s true, Maddie, what can I do? He’s still my husband. The father of my children. He may have gotten some things mixed up with our insurance and found some loopholes, like Dexter explained, but I have benefited from it, too, haven’t I? I live in this house. I spend our money. I may not have known about what happened to those etchings, but I guess I share the blame. I have to stand by him, don’t I?”
“It’s worse than simply insurance fraud, Zenya,” I said, catching sight of Caroline Rochette as she got ready to leave. “Please tell me something. That night after the Woodburn ball, when Bill was driving like a crazy man, did you go straight home? Did he stay with you all night?”
Zenya looked like it was hard for her to focus on anything but the past ten minutes, but she tried. “He went out again.”
“Please, Zenya. Please tell me what happened that night. Just how you remember it.”
“He left you in the middle of the street downtown, which was so horrible. Then he told me to call Dexter to find you and round you up. He was very specific that I had to get Dex to go. He thought the two of you might make a cute couple. Fancy that. Then he cooled down a bit and decided he wouldn’t go chasing over to Pasadena for a showdown with the Hutsons. So we came home.”
“About what time?”
“I don’t know. Maybe one.”
“And after you came home?”
“He was restless. He went to his study and was on the phone, I think. Pretty late, but that’s not unusual for Bill. I went to bed at one-thirty and Bill said he thought he’d go take a drive. I don’t know what time he got back home. He was out late, though. I awoke around three-ten A.M. and he still hadn’t returned. What is this, Madeline?”
It was exactly as I had feared. Bill Knight did not have an alibi for the time Sara Jackson was getting shot at my house. I tried to work out the timetable in my head. Perhaps Zenya had mentioned to Bill the reason I had needed a ride home that night—that I had lent my own wheels to one of my waitresses, Sara Jackson. She probably told Bill how Sara was going to return my car that night. Bill could have seized the opportunity to get rid of Sara Jackson as a threat for good.
“What is going on?” Zenya was as anxious as I’d ever seen her. She had just witnessed her lovely party be turned to shambles by the arrest of her husband. And I was standing there on her grass telling her it was much worse than simple insurance scams.
“That woman who was shot at my house,” I said, my throat dry. “She knew your husband.”
“Don’t tell me this,” Zenya whispered, shaking her head. “Were they having an affair?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “But…your husband wasn’t being faithful to you, Zenya. I can’t believe I’m the one who is telling you this, but I just found out yesterday.”
“What are you talking about?” She looked completely perplexed, her hazel eyes wide.
Caroline Rochette walked by us and stopped. Oh no.
“I took your advice, Madeline,” Caroline said to me. “Just in time. I am through with all the lies.”
“Good,” I barely whispered. Zenya and Caroline were standing together. I was seriously concerned about spontaneous combustion.
Caroline turned to Zenya. “I’m sorry, Zenya. I had no desire to hurt anyone. You simply have got to believe that. I’m afraid it all spun out of control so fast, I got a little lost.”
“What are you talking about?” Zenya asked her. And then her eyes focused and she knew. “You were sleeping with my husband.”
“I was worried about Albert. He seemed to be growing a little tired of us. I couldn’t lose him…I know it makes no sense.”
Zenya Knight, the sweet flower child of the fund-raising crowd, spun and slapped Caroline Rochette’s face so hard the crack of it silenced the few remaining departing guests.
Caroline Rochette, after a lifetime of delusion, denial, and dermabrasion, had finally resolved to confess her sins. She needed to, once and for all, get the whole story out, and a dizzying right hand to her cheek wasn’t going to keep her quiet.
“Please understand,” she begged Zenya, “Bill came to me and said he was leaving you anyway. I believed him, Zenya. How was I to know he was such a liar? He came to me at a vulnerable time in my life. I’m just telling you all of this so you know the real man those police just arrested. I didn’t want you ruining your life supporting him without knowing this.”
Zenya raised her right hand again and Caroline, her cheek blazing red, didn’t flinch. But Zenya lowered it, her anger directed in too many other directions to take it all out on poor Caroline Rochette.
Wesley signaled to me that our truck had been loaded and we needed to split. I had never been so grateful to leave one of my own parties in my life. I told the women I had to go.
Caroline Rochette did not stick around an instant longer. Zenya stood in the middle of her empty backyard, almost alone. Her son, Kirby, walked up to his mom, hanging his head as he hugged her.
“Things always work out, Kirby my boy,” I heard her saying to him as I walked away. Whether from a natural talent for bouncing back up, or a lifelong habit of putting a sunny spin on every bad turn in life, Zenya had her soft smile back in place, ready to cheer up her son.
“I called Uncle Dex,” Kirby said. “He’s coming right over.”
“Good boy,” she said, rubbing his hair.
“Mom. What are we going to do?” Kirby’s strained voice could be heard even as I walked across the lawn.
“We’ll improvise, sweetheart,” I heard Zenya say to her jazz-playing son. “You’re so good at that. You’ll teach your mom.”
When I reached Wesley at the front of the house, he looked grim. It had been an unprecedented party. We’d never had a hostess lose her husband in the middle of the meal before. First time for
everything.
“It’s okay,” I said to Wes. “I think Zenya is ready to hear the truth about Bill now. She has some big shocks ahead. But I think she’ll be able to roll with them.”
“Mad,” Wes said, ignoring my words. “I just got off the cell. They’re letting Bill Knight go.”
“What?”
“Rich men get a different kind of justice, right? Bill Knight’s lawyers have already raised the roof. Since this is just a suspicion-of-insurance-fraud arrest, with no priors, they’re letting him go on his own recognizance.”
“But, Wes! The murders of Sara Jackson and—”
“I know, Mad. The cops don’t have any evidence to make that sort of charge right now. I just talked to Honnett, who was calling for you, by the way. They didn’t find Knight’s fingerprints in your house or in Grasso’s house. They have no witnesses that place him at the scene. He said he was home with his wife on the night of Sara Jackson’s murder.”
“But he wasn’t!”
“I’m just telling you what Honnett told me. The police don’t have any real evidence.”
“Shit. This is all taking too long. I can’t stand it. Zenya said Bill went out early Sunday morning, after the Woodburn ball. And now the cops are going to need more time to pin down everything that asshole has done.”
“You’re right,” Wes said. “Look, I need to return the rental tables. What are you doing?”
That was an extremely good question. I felt that too-familiar clawing of fear in the pit of my stomach. What was I going to do now? A murderer was very likely going to be out on the street in a few hours and I was pretty sure who he would come after.
Me.
“Surprise”
I was in serious trouble. I ran all the way up the path to Wesley’s guest house and used my key to enter. Bill Knight was about to be released. My name would have been mentioned a lot. Tracking down the valuations from LACMA and talking to the cops. Telling his mistress, Caroline, about his ulterior motives. Letting his wife know about his affair with Caroline. Sticking my nose into every horrid secret the jerk had tried to get away with. Bill Knight might figure that if he eliminated me, he would be home free. Or he might just want payback.
It was maddening. There wasn’t much evidence tying him to the murders of Sara Jackson and Grasso and they wouldn’t lock him up for good until they had some. I had to find more proof fast. If I waited for the cops to do it, I might be dead first. It was only a few strides to get to the guest bedroom.
Inside, I stepped out of my shoes and changed into a clean pair of shorts. Then I pulled open the nightstand drawer and touched the Lady Smith .38. I had no holster or other method of carrying it safely, but I didn’t care. I grabbed the loaded gun, shoved it into my big Hawaiian-print bag, and slung it over my shoulder, trying to calm myself down. Trying to chill.
When I got back out into the main section of the guest house, I noticed something odd. I must have missed it earlier when I raced to my room. Holly’s shoes were kicked off in the corner of the kitchen. The silver open-toe wedgies she’d been wearing at today’s party. It wasn’t unusual for Holly to stop by Wesley’s after a gig. It was a tradition, really. But where had she gone?
“Holly?” I walked through the little cottage. The bathroom door was open. It was empty. The other rooms were silent.
I opened the front door of the guest house and looked across the pool to the main house. The chandelier light was on in the empty living room, but I hadn’t seen Rolando’s truck outside today. Holly must have gone over. While I knew Wes could be delayed returning the rentals, I would feel much safer hanging with Holly.
Outside, I barefooted it across the warm grass. The French door that led to the sunroom was unlocked. Wes had told the crew to lock up when they left the site for the day, but maybe Holly let herself in with the key and forgot to relock it.
I had the sudden high-school-girl urge to surprise Holly and scare the heck out of her. I crept along the sunroom and into the main hall. The house was a shambles of dust and drop cloths. A ladder leaned against one wall. I edged along the hall to the front foyer. I was about to yell, “Surprise,” when I heard a voice. Holly was talking. Maybe I shouldn’t give her a heart attack while she was talking on the cell phone. Maybe it was Donald. She’d been missing him a lot since he’d been out of town. The good angel won out over the bad. I would eavesdrop before I pounced, hiding in the entry closet. Inside the tiny space, I couldn’t hear a thing.
So I gave it up. I came out of the closet and headed for the arched doorway that led into the step-down living room. The large empty space was covered in hideous cranberry-colored deep-pile carpet. Wes planned to tear it out and refinish the hardwood floor underneath. With my bare feet, I noiselessly entered the room.
When I turned the corner, I froze.
Standing in front of the gigantic fireplace in the middle of the room, facing me, was Holly. Standing with her back to me was the woman with the red shag haircut. The one who had followed me in her Honda Accord through Hollywood, and shown up to spy on me on Dexter’s deck. She was now pointing a hand at Holly, a hand holding a 9mm semiautomatic handgun. I remembered it from the charts.
I ducked back out of sight, my heart pounding out of my chest. Holly had seen me. I was certain she must have. But she hadn’t reacted at all. Oh my God. What did that woman want with Holly?
I tried to move silently as I rushed out to the back sunroom. Who was that woman, anyway? Who was she? I had to do something to rescue Holly. I opened my shoulder bag and saw the .38, heavy at the bottom. I blanched, frozen for a moment, unable to think clearly. I reached past it and grabbed my cell phone, quickly dialing Honnett’s number, resenting the sounds of the little beep tones as I hit each number. Several rings, and then his machine. I despaired. I left him voice mail. I called 911 and waited for the second ring. They would pick up. They would—
“Drop it!” a woman’s voice said.
I jerked around. The red-haired woman stood in the doorway of the sunroom, her gun pointed at me.
“Drop it right now or you are dead.”
I let the cell phone hit the tile floor.
“Kick it over here. Now!” she yelled.
I had a frantic panic that she had killed Holly, but I tried hard to control the fear. I hadn’t heard a gunshot and her weapon didn’t seem to have noise-suppression equipment. I prayed Hol was all right. The woman snapped off the power button on my cell phone and dropped it back onto the floor.
“What did you do to Holly? Who are you?” I stared at her. She had fair skin and faded looks, like she had been pretty at one time. Close up, I could see that despite her good bone structure, her skin looked worn, covered with many fine lines. She would have looked a lot better if she had been wearing some makeup. With her sparkless looks, it was hard to see a resemblance, but her coloring was similar to Sara Jackson’s—the same dark red hair and freckles.
“You really have no idea who I am,” she said, amazed.
“Are you related to Sara Jackson?”
She shook her head, amused.
I couldn’t help staring at the gun in her hand. She held it firmly and capably, two-handed for support. I had the fleeting thought that Andi, my gun trainer, would be impressed.
“Why have you been following me?” I asked, trying to stay calm. “Do you know Dexter Wyatt?”
“I have the gun, so I’ll lead this conversation, okay?”
She acted like a pissed-off cop.
“Which reminds me,” she continued, “I want my thirty-eight back.”
Her .38? The gun Honnett had lent to me, the engraving had included an initial. S perhaps. And a former cop. Sherrie? Sherrie Honnett. Oh my God.
“This can’t be happening,” I said, my brain swimming. Honnett’s wife. The age was right. As a cop, she’d be familiar with firearms. But what the hell was she doing pointing a Beretta 9mm at my heart? “Sherrie, put the gun away.”
“Finally,” she yelled at me. “I’ve k
nown about you for a long time, and now you finally know me. Perfect.”
“What are you doing here?” We stood in the empty sunroom and I was becoming more alarmed by the minute. “What did you do to Holly? Did you hurt her?”
“Your girlfriend is sleeping in the other room.”
Sleeping! My stomach jumped. I steadied myself and tried to follow what she was saying.
“I let myself into that little cottage where you live, looking for my revolver, and I found your friend instead. She began yelling and getting hysterical, so I brought her to this house, where I could leave her for a while. My plan was to come back and wait for you. But I took too long, didn’t I? And here you are.”
“I don’t know why you’ve been following me, Sherrie. Or why on earth you think you’re entitled to break into my house or hurt my friends. But you have got to wake up now. You can’t get away with this behavior.”
“I don’t intend to,” she said, in disgust. “I’ll take responsibility for it all. You don’t know me very well, but you’ll see.”
The woman was completely irrational. I kept the anger out of my voice this time. “You must be very upset, Sherrie,” I said, making eye contact with her. “You’ve been sick. You need your husband by your side. I know that now. I’m aware of everything now.”
“You, little girl, know nothing. You have no idea what you are talking about.” Sherrie Honnett looked like she would like to spit on me. Or shoot me. “Sit down on the floor,” she ordered. “Over in the corner. Now. Move.”
I sat down where she told me to, and she followed my actions with the gun, carefully settling herself on the floor ten feet away from me, resting the Beretta on her knee, pointing it right at my chest.
“I know you must love your husband,” I said, trying again.
“You have no idea what I feel,” she said, still gravely annoyed. “He is the most honorable, exceptional man you have ever met, Madeline Bean. You don’t appreciate that, of course, because you are a class-one bitch. But that man is the best there is.”
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