“Beautiful,” I shouted over the ratchety motor noise. I passed the bottle into Regina’s outstretched hand.
“Cheers,” she shouted back, and took a slug herself.
With practiced skill, Regina maneuvered the Zodiak through the channel and then cut into the wide bay instead of continuing out toward the open sea.
Both sides of the bay were lined with dense-packed houses, everything from tiny cottages to three-story confections of glass and wood. There was an East Coast feel about it all: old money, restricted entree.
Regina powered up to pass a black-and-gold gondola that was being poled by a striped-shirted, opera-singing gondolier. His passengers were snuggled together drinking red wine. Very romantic. Regina raised our bottle to them and they waved back.
At the mouth of a narrow canal, Regina cut her motor to an idle. We glided into a shady canyon between rows of big houses. The cross streets that had been so confusing to me earlier were charming arched bridges from our perspective. The bridges trailed dusty green ivy and bright bougainvillea from either end. The air was rich with the smells of moss and salt water and star jasmine. The atmosphere was just short of exotic. A secret place discovered.
The houses we passed were magnificent. They faced the canal as they would a street, shamelessly flaunting their graces to passersby. Sunday strollers filled the walkway at the edge of the canal on both sides, festive in the weird clothes Southern Californians wear near water. Altogether it was like a Disneyland ride, a sort of Pirates of the Upper Middle Class. I was having fun.
Every house we passed had a small dock in front. And almost every dock had a boat of some sort, or evidence of a boat: lines, tarps, chains. Some of the docks were furnished with patio chairs and tables, here and there pots of geraniums or trailing succulents.
After the second bridge, Regina killed her motor and coasted to an empty dock. She tossed her line over the metal stanchion and pulled us in close. The house before us was an Italianate mansion with a pink marble terrace overlooking the water. Tall windows along the front must have filled the house with southern light.
It was a warm day. Had it been my house, at least some of the tall windows would have been open. That was my first reaction; a nice place, but stuffy.
I clambered out of the raft and pulled Regina up after me. “Looks awfully quiet,” I said.
“The boat’s gone. I know the neighbor. I can ask her when it sailed.”
“Let’s try the front door first.”
Regina was edgy, excited, definitely high. I wondered if she needed more adventure in her life. As adventures go, the one we were on was so far tame stuff. I let her ring the bell.
When no one answered, I stepped to the first set of terrace doors and brazenly looked inside.
I saw a professionally decorated living room, good antiques, polished wood floors, original artwork on the walls. Everything in order. I went to each set of doors and saw more of the same in different rooms. The message was lots of money, knows how to spend it.
“Maggie?” Regina walked across the terrace toward me waving a gray business card. “This was in the door. Should I just leave it?”
I took the card from her and read: Los Angeles Police Department. When I saw the name next to the gold-embossed detective shield, I got a knot in my stomach. Detective Michael Flint, it said, Robbery-Homicide Division, Major Crimes Section. There was a note on the back in Mike’s careful hand: “Mrs. Ramsdale, please call immediately.”
Patience is a virtue. Unfortunately, it’s not one of mine. In my rush to find out about Hillary, I had neglected some of the essential groundwork. That is, it was not my place to tell Elizabeth Ramsdale that her stepdaughter was dead.
Mike has told me that the most important part of a murder investigation is the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The physical evidence is fresh, and that’s nice when he gets the case into court. But it is usually more important to him to have fresh emotional evidence. When he questions someone, he listens to the body language as closely as he does the verbal answers: an inappropriate laugh, eyelids that drop before an answer, any reaction that catches the liar. For me to spring the news on Elizabeth would be evidence-tampering as egregious as tramping through the murder scene would be.
It was time for me to back off. I went over to the front door and tucked Mike’s card back into the space above the deadbolt where Regina had found it.
I started down the slick marble steps. “Want to take me back now?”
Regina stayed her ground. “While we’re here, let’s talk to the neighbor. She’s such a dear old thing. I’m sure she’s seen us. She’d think it rude if I didn’t stop in to say hello.”
I hesitated. An old lady next door wasn’t the same as talking to the family, but they can be wonderful sources of information.
I smiled at Regina. “Lead the way,” I said.
The neighbor’s house was a slate-gray Cape Cod with white trim and a lot of polished brass. Standing alone it would have been a charming beach cottage. But sandwiched between a faux English Tudor manor house and the Ramsdales’ palazzo, it seemed as contrived as a movie facade.
Regina banged the huge knocker a few times and we were let in by a maid wearing blue jeans and a flowered tunic.
“Have a seat in the living room,” the maid said. “I will tell Martha you’re here.”
“Martha knows they’re here.” The voice was estrogen-deepened, the woman behind it ancient. She came down the stairs leaning heavily on the railing, as wrinkled and fragile-looking as an orphaned baby bird. She offered her crooked hand to Regina, to hold not to shake. “So nice to see you, dear. How are the boys?”
“Getting big,” Regina said, planting a kiss on the powdered cheek. “All except Greg. He keeps hoping, but dammit, Martha, he’s just not going to grow anymore.”
Martha laughed. “Who’s your friend?”
“Martha, this is Maggie MacGowen. She’s a filmmaker and she’s interested in the Ramsdales.”
Martha turned her bright eyes on me. “Whyever would you be interested in the Ramsdales? Unless you’re doing soap opera.”
“Are they good soap-opera material?” I asked.
“Good Lord, yes. Much better than most television. I never rent videos on weekends. So much more interesting to just sit on my terrace and snoop.” She patted Regina’s hand. “Let’s go in and sit down. May I offer you some refreshment?”
Regina rose to the offer. “I wouldn’t mind a double something, on the rocks. How about you, Maggie?”
“No thanks,” I said. “I’m well past my limit.”
I looked at my watch as I followed them into the living room. I needed to be on the freeway within the hour if I was going to be in Sherman Oaks by six. The time wasn’t my problem. The wine was. I was in no shape to drive. I had known even as I accepted the first glass of champagne that I should stick with soda.
I’m a funny drunk. Charming even, according to my friends. I had never had a problem with booze, really. But I had had a rough year or so, and a little chemically induced happiness had helped me get by now and then. I was beginning to be aware how many evenings over the last few months I had been funny and charming by bedtime. There had been nights that without the help of a bottle of wine or several stiff scotches I wouldn’t have had the courage to go to bed at all.
For the first month or so after my ex-husband moved out, I went upstairs every night with the sense that an onerous burden had been lifted. There is nothing worse than going through the motions night after night out of habit, because you haven’t embraced the inevitable alternatives, with someone you wish had missed his freeway off ramp. Had gone over the side, maybe. Into the cold, unforgiving waters of the San Francisco Bay, perhaps.
Anyway, the relief wears off after a while and you begin to notice that one person can’t warm a king-size bed. Mike had helped warm the sheets for a while. Then, when he was gone, medium-priced chardonnay and Bowser had now and then sung my lullaby. I preferred Mike.
“Martha,” I said, “would you mind if I used the telephone?”
“By all means, dear,” she said graciously.
While Martha and Regina uncapped a new bottle of bourbon at the wet bar, I called Mike’s pager and programmed in Martha’s number. If he was still in Long Beach, there was no point in both of us driving all the way back to the Valley for dinner. Separately. I was thinking about his handcuffs when I rejoined the others.
Regina made room for me beside her on a velvet settee. “Martha knew Hillary’s mother.”
“Tell me about her,” I said. I hoped to keep the conversation away from Hillary’s fate. I had already told too many people. “Tell me what sort of mother she was to Hillary.”
“Hanna was a wonderful mother.” Martha seemed thoughtful. “Very careful. Now, I personally raised my children to be independent. Hanna kept little Hilly awfully close to her. Smothered her, to my way of thinking. Does that sound catty?”
I smiled. “If that’s being catty, please, go ahead. I want to know what Hillary’s home life was like.”
“It was a good life by most measures. The Ramsdales certainly wanted for nothing. If Hanna smothered Hillary, well, perhaps no one could blame her. She wasn’t a young mother, you see. Hillary was a blessing that came somewhat late in life. A surprise, after Hanna and Randy had given up on children. I think that being an only child of older parents can be a special burden, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I can see how it could be. Do you think Hillary was unhappy?”
“Good Lord, no,” Martha snapped. “Randy would not permit his girls to be unhappy. He doted on Hanna and Hillary. He would move mountains for them.”
“You said that Hillary was a surprise. Thinking back, do you think the baby was a welcome surprise?”
“Hanna always said so. She had some female problems. I don’t remember what, exactly. Hanna did tell me that she had lost several pregnancies and had a little one who died very early on. Very sad for her. So of course, after that much heartache, a healthy child like Hillary would be something of a miracle, don’t you think? Now, I only know what Hanna told me. The Ramsdales bought the house next door because of our school district. They moved in in time for Hillary to begin kindergarten. I didn’t know her as a baby.”
I was keeping two columns of figures in my head, Amy Metrano’s age when she disappeared, Hillary’s age when she entered the local picture. Four and a half and fivish. Could work.
“Was Randy as protective as Hanna?” I asked.
She pursed her thin lips. “Oh yes. More so, I believe. Poor man was desperately lost after Hanna died. And he worried so about Hillary. I am persuaded that’s why he married again so soon. He wanted to find another Hanna.”
“Was the second wife like Hanna?” I asked.
“Physically, very much so. As is Elizabeth.” Martha looked at me. “Would you call that kinky?”
“I would, yes.” My response seemed to please her.
“I always thought so, too. Poor Randy. You cannot judge a book by its cover.”
“Meaning,” I said, “that beyond their appearance, wives two and three were not like Hanna?”
“Precisely.”
The telephone rang before Martha got into her wind up.
“Excuse me, please.” She creaked to her feet and picked up the receiver. After hello, she did some listening. Then she told the caller, “It certainly wasn’t me, sir. But I can offer you Regina Szal or Maggie MacGowen. What’s your pleasure?”
I knew it was Mike returning my page. I had been standing beside Martha during most of this exchange. She seemed to be flirting a bit, so I waited. She was chuckling when she handed me the receiver.
“For you, dear,” she said, and mouthed, “Man.”
I put the receiver to my ear. “Mike?”
“I take it you’re not in trouble,” he said. “Who’s the old girl?”
“She lives next door to the Ramsdales.”
“Jesus Christ, Maggie,” he exploded. “What the hell are you up to?”
“Hi, honey,” I cooed. “Nice to hear your voice, too.”
He drew a noisy breath. “Sorry. But someday you’re going to get into a deeper hole than you can get yourself out of.”
“That’s why I keep your number in my pocket, cupcake.”
Finally, he laughed. “Okay. What’s up?”
“Are you still in Long Beach?”
“No. I’m home. Michael and I are watching the end of the ball game. Waiting for you.”
“I’m leaving in a few minutes.”
“Good. Who all have you talked to?”
“People at the yacht club, the next-door neighbor. Guido and I made some pictures. I showed them to Leslie Metrano.”
“And?”
“Rang no bells.”
“Seen any signs of the Ramsdales?”
“None.”
“If you do run into either of them, Maggie . .
“Yes?”
“Stay away.”
“You’re as bossy as Lyle.”
“The thing is,” Mike went on, “if anyone hurt you, I’d have to kill him. So far, I’ve had a clean week and I want to keep it that way.”
“Bye, Mike,” I said.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you. I gotta go.”
“You gotta get home. We’re hungry.”
“Bye.” I hung up and went back to Regina and Martha.
“Everything all right, dear?” Martha asked.
“Fine. But I’m out of time. May I come back and talk with you again later? Maybe tomorrow?”
“Certainly.” She smiled sweetly. “I was wondering whether you knew when Hillary and Randy would be coming back.”
Regina pulled in a breath, getting ready to spill the big news. I grabbed her arm and squeezed and she seemed to get the message.
“It seems that everyone believes Hillary and Randy are somewhere in Europe together,” I said. “Do you know when they left? Or where they went?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know that. Randy moved out next door after an especially nasty fight, sometime last winter. Elizabeth told me he had gone abroad. And not long afterward, Hillary joined him.”
“When did she join him?”
She drew in a squeaky breath as she thought. “March? Yes, I think it was the middle of March. Hillary brought me some shamrocks for St. Patrick’s Day, as she always does. And that was the last I saw her.”
“Did she say where her father had gone?”
“No. She did tell me she wasn’t getting along well with Elizabeth and wanted to be with her father. Apparently, Elizabeth sent her right along. I enjoy gossiping with you, dear, but you really should ask Elizabeth.”
“She isn’t home,” I said. “Any idea where she might be?”
“There was a policeman here earlier today, and he asked the same question of my housekeeper. We were trying to think. To be honest, I can’t quite remember. Since Randy left, Elizabeth seems to come and go rather irregularly. I don’t keep close tabs.
The boat has been gone for some time. A week perhaps. Maybe she’s gone off to Catalina.”
“If she comes back, will you call me?”
“That’s what the policeman said, too. Who should I call first, you or him?”
I put my arm around her thin shoulders and whispered into her ear, “The policeman and I can be reached at the same number.”
She brightened. “Oh! Oh, my. Yes, I certainly do wish to speak with you further. You must explain that to me.”
We said our goodbyes. Regina dispensed some hugs and promises of her own to Martha. Martha seemed fatigued suddenly, and I worried that we had overstayed. We left her in the living room and saw ourselves out.
“What a dear,” I said to Regina as we walked back toward the Zodiak.
“She is a dear. I’ve heard stories that she was quite a hell-raiser in her day.”
“I hope she was,” I said, chuckling at
the image. It seemed fully consistent.
When I took a last look up at the Ramsdales’ house, I noticed that an upstairs window was open enough for the breeze off the water to ruffle the sheer curtains. Mike’s card was still stuck in the front door.
I was looking just about everywhere except where I was going. I walked right into the back of Regina. She had stopped dead on the walk.
“Sorry,” I said.
Regina turned a pale face to me and pointed to the Ramsdales’ dock, where we had left the Zodiak.
I saw nothing. No raft.
I ran, Regina close on my heels. Our feet clattered on the small wooden dock. We found the raft’s line attached to the stanchion and taut. When I leaned over the edge I could see the gray rubber of the raft bobbing just under the surface of the dark water. I knelt and began to haul it in. Even with Regina’s help, it was too heavy. And the effort was pointless. There was no hope of refloating the Zodiak. Ever.
Through the murky water I could see the long slashes that had reduced the thick rubber sides to ribbons.
Regina had green fire in her eyes again.
“What the fuck is this supposed to mean?” She was steamed.
“It means,” I said, “that we’re having dinner in Long Beach after all.”
CHAPTER 10
“I can swim,” I said.
“With your throat cut?” Mike lifted a rubber ribbon that had recently been part of the Zodiak raft. City lifeguard divers had brought the raft up onto the dock and circled the area with yellow crime-scene tape. A chunk of the sidewalk had also been cordoned off to make room for some floodlights.
Mike had called in the Long Beach police and given them some of the pertinent history. A couple of carloads of men in uniform were drifting around somewhere, ogling the local talent with more energy, I thought, than they were giving the investigation. I guess we hadn’t infected them with the serious implications of the sinking of a six-foot inflatable.
The lifeguards had jumped right on it, but only because the outboard motor had sunk and was leaking oil and gasoline into the waterway. Not that one more oil slick would alter that environment significantly. My impression was that they were having an awfully good time in the water, at time and a half.
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