Queen of Hearts

by Rhys Bowen

  “Because he knew where the body was lying, but he couldn’t have seen it if he’d been asleep in his own bed.”

  “But why would he want to kill Goldman? Hadn’t Goldman just brought him over from Spain to turn him into a movie star?”

  “Yes. And then he appeared to change his mind,” I said. “He told Juan he wasn’t ready for the movies. He didn’t like Juan’s accent. In fact, he made fun of it.”

  “But you don’t go around killing people because of their accent.” The sheriff shook his head.

  “I hardly know any of them,” I said. “There may be another reason. Juan and Stella seemed to have an attraction to each other.”

  “You reckon he maybe wanted to steal the candlesticks? Why else would he have come in here?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you bring him in here and ask him? And when he comes in, see if his eyes go straight to the body. That would prove he knew where it was.”

  “Okay, miss,” the sheriff said. “Since you’ve delivered the goods so far I have to think that you know what you’re doing. I’ll send a couple of guys to fetch him.”

  “And could I suggest one more thing?” I said. “Tell him that you have proof that he killed Mr. Goldman.”

  “But I don’t. Only your word.”

  “Please tell him you do. Tell him that Bella Brightwell came to steal the candlesticks and saw him. He won’t know about her. That will throw him off guard.”

  “I suppose I could do that. . . .” He looked doubtful. “It’s not what you’d call regular, but then this guy is a foreigner. He won’t know.” He grinned then. “Okay, let’s get him.”

  I have to admit that I began to have second thoughts while I waited for Juan to be brought to the library. It seemed he hadn’t put in an appearance that morning yet and the sheriff’s deputies had to go to the Hacienda to wake him. Bella and I stood outside the library beside the sheriff, shivering in the cold drafts coming through the open front door. She didn’t look at me. I didn’t look at her. Now that the first flush of excitement was over I was feeling slightly guilty that I had told the sheriff the truth about her. I wondered if she would be arrested here and then deported back to England. Then I reminded myself that she was a jewel thief. It was only right that she faced justice.

  Now that I had time to think, I also began to worry that I might have made a mistake about Juan. Could he somehow have heard where the body was lying? Might Ronnie and Algie have described the scene to him when they hauled him out of bed? I didn’t think they had told him much and he appeared to be half asleep when he was dragged into the house. But was it indeed possible that he had gone to bed and then managed to sneak back into the house without being seen when we were in full view of the front door all the time? Was I going to find myself in trouble for suggesting that he was Mr. Goldman’s killer? The wait seemed an eternity. When my stomach gave a large growl I realized also that I was hungry. Belinda, as usual, was the smart one. She had gone to breakfast. I had somehow managed to involve myself in a crime yet again. When would I ever learn?

  We all looked up at the sound of raised voices, the crunch of feet on the gravel outside. The two deputies appeared with an angry Juan between them.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, stalking straight up to the sheriff. “I am dragged from my bed once again? Why am I never allowed to sleep in peace, eh? I am told the sheriff wishes to speak with me. Okay, I say. First I must wash and shave and get dressed, but no. The say I must come now. You treat me without respect because I am a foreigner. I shall complain to your superiors.” He fished in his pocket, took out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling then blowing out smoke in what could only be described as an insolent manner.

  “No, son, you’ve got it wrong.” The sheriff looked relaxed, as if he was about to enjoy what was coming. “I treat you this way because I know you killed Mr. Goldman.”

  “You know? How do you know?” Juan demanded. “You try to pin this on me because I am foreign. I know how the police work in America. They like to find the—how you say—scapegoat. They don’t care about the truth. But I say this—if I killed Mr. Goldman, where is your proof?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact I have my proof right here,” Sheriff Billings said in his slow drawl. “You see, someone saw you kill Goldman.”

  “Who? Who saw me? What nonsense is this?”

  “This young lady saw you,” the sheriff answered. He stepped aside to reveal Bella.

  Juan appeared to notice Bella for the first time. “Wait,” he said, frowning. “You are not Stella. Who are you?”

  “She’s Stella’s sister,” I said. “She came here to steal the candlesticks. . . .”

  “A common thief?”

  “Better than a common murderer,” Bella said defiantly. “And that’s right. I was going to steal the candlesticks, but I saw you kill Mr. Goldman. I climbed down the wall and in through the window.”

  “Down the wall? That is not possible. What are you, a fly?” He was still insolent, defiant.

  “Do you want me to demonstrate?” Bella started for the window.

  The color had drained from Juan’s face, then his eyes flashed with anger. “He deserved to die,” he said. “He insulted me and my culture and my religion and my family. When I met him in Spain he was so polite, so excited. He would make me a big star, he said. And I thought this would solve our problems. My family is no longer rich. We can no longer afford to run our hacienda. I believed I would go home with money and fame. But when I came here, I found out he was a liar and a thief.”

  “A thief? What did he steal?”

  “He stole my heritage,” Juan said. “Those candlesticks, they came from the convent where my great-aunt is mother superior. My family has always sent our women to that convent, for centuries now. They are simple women. Holy women. I am sure they did not realize the value of what they had. And the convent was badly in need of repair. Mr. Goldman offered them money and they sold their candlesticks. They sold an El Greco painting for pennies. To them it was a Madonna with child, not an El Greco. And that devil boasted he had bought an entire chapel in Spain. He was going to have it shipped here, stone by stone, and rebuilt as his bathhouse. A holy chapel turned into a changing room? That’s when I decided I would take back the things he stole from my great-aunt’s convent. I would do justice on their behalf.”

  “So you only pretended to go to bed after dinner?” the sheriff asked.

  “Of course. I went to the front door, slammed it, then I went into the library ahead of them and waited behind the curtains in an alcove. When the last men left and Mr. Goldman was alone I decided it was the right time to confront him. I came out from behind the curtains. He was surprised to see me, but friendly. Not worried. ‘Hey there, Juan. Couldn’t sleep after all? Have a brandy,’ he said. ‘Have a cigar. I won’t be a minute while I put these candlesticks back in their box and into the safe.’

  “‘You will not do that,’ I said to him. ‘I have come on behalf of the sisters of Santa Theresa to take back their property.’

  “He laughed. ‘My property now, son,’ he said. ‘Too late to change their minds. Besides, these’ll look better on my dining table than in their gloomy old chapel.’”

  Juan paused, as if in physical pain. “He turned away from me. I picked up the candlestick and I hit him, once across the head. He fell. I dropped the candlestick, appalled at what I had done. Then I crept out down the hallway and hid behind a statue in one of the niches. Then there was a great crash and everyone ran to see what had happened. I took my chance and slipped out and went to bed. And if you ask me if I am sorry—no. I told you. He was a man who deserved to die. I am proud to avenge the honor of my people and my country.”

  “You won’t be so cocky when you’re facing the gas chamber,” the sheriff said.

  “I spit on your gas chamber,” Juan said. “And I spit on you.”<
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  He spat on the marble floor. Then he turned and ran out of the open front door.

  Chapter 30

  For a moment I think we were all rather stunned. I know I was. The sheriff recovered first. “Stupid fool,” he said. “Where does he think he can go? He can’t get out and he can’t hide for long. We’ll have dogs here soon and we’ll track him down.”

  We followed him to the front door. There was no sign of Juan, who must have already disappeared into the trees. The sheriff rushed over to the telephone, bawling out instructions. He looked satisfied when he returned to us. “The truck with the dog handlers is already on its way,” he said, “and I’ve alerted the guys at the gatehouse to have their weapons ready. Shoot to kill if necessary. Well, I guess that’s all we can do for now. I don’t know about you, but I need my breakfast.”

  We followed him through to the dining room where Belinda, Ronnie and one of the deputies were tucking into a hearty meal.

  “These pancakes are jolly good.” Belinda looked up as we came in.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee, but I felt too sick to eat. I’d heard the words “shoot to kill.” Whatever Juan had done, he had felt he was justified. I suppose I might have felt that way if vandals had taken big chunks of Castle Rannoch. My problem is that I’m too softhearted. I can often see the criminal’s point of view. I looked across at Bella, who had also helped herself to a plate of eggs, pancakes and bacon. She had no such sensibilities. I wondered what would happen to her now—would Darcy have the authority to take her home in handcuffs to face trial? I wondered how soon he would return and wished he hadn’t gone on a wasted journey.

  I was just managing to nibble a piece of toast when the telephone rang. One of the deputies went to answer it.

  “That will be our boys arriving at the gate,” the sheriff said, a large hunk of ham poised on his fork.

  But then the deputy came hurrying back. “You’re wanted on the telephone, sir,” he said.

  We heard his big boots echoing on the marble floor. Then we clearly heard, “Damn it. The goddamned fool. What does he think he can achieve with that? I’ll get men onto it right away.”

  And at the same moment the front door burst open and Craig Hart came in, still wearing a striped silk bathrobe. “I smelled smoke,” he said.

  “That damned Spaniard seems to have started a fire just inside the gate area,” the sheriff said. “I don’t know what he thinks he can do. Does he expect everyone to rush out of the gatehouse so that he can slip out?”

  “I’d better go and call the fire department, and get the groundsmen onto it as soon as possible.” Ronnie stood up. “Fire can spread real quickly at this time of year.”

  He had scarcely left when Maria rushed in. “Fuego, senors,” she called. “Fire.”

  “Yes, we know, Maria. The guys at the gate told us and we’ve already sent someone to put the men onto it.”

  “No, senor. Not at the gate. Up behind the house. Big flames.”

  We ran to the front door. The air was already heavy with smoke. The wind had picked up, blowing away the fog and fanning the flames. We could see the orange glow below us and hear the crackle and roar as the fire spread.

  “It can’t have spread as fast as that,” Craig said. “Look. It’s already way over to the right.”

  “And up above,” I shouted as I turned to see a tree go up in flames behind the house.

  “He’s ringed us with fire, the bastard,” the sheriff said in a horrified voice. “How the hell are we going to get out?” He ran back to the telephone, jiggled it, then slammed it down. “The line has gone dead,” he said. “Let’s hope those fire trucks get here in time to clear a way to the gate.”

  Even as we looked new bursts of flame appeared in the woodland. The ring of fire was now in place and it was coming toward us from all sides, feeding on dry grass and scrub.

  “Go wake everybody up,” the sheriff said. “Everyone should be ready to leave if we get a chance.”

  “I’ll go wake Algie,” Ronnie said.

  “I’ll go and get my mother.” I headed in the direction of Mr. Chaplin’s suite behind the pool.

  “And Maria, go and get Mrs. Goldman and her friend,” the sheriff barked.

  “Francisco!” Maria wailed. “Where is my Francisco? Francisco!” And she rushed off to the back of the house, shouting for him.

  “The rest of you stay where I can see you,” the sheriff barked.

  I didn’t get as far as the pool. Mummy and Charlie Chaplin came running toward us, my mother’s hair still in curlers—which shows you how frightened she was. Mummy never allowed a soul to see her without makeup and perfect hair.

  “What is it?” she called. “What’s going on?”

  “Juan’s set some fires,” I shouted back.

  “Juan? Whatever for?”

  “A final act of malice, I’d say,” the sheriff responded. “Doesn’t want to face the gas chamber.”

  “Juan killed Cy Goldman? I don’t believe it.” Mummy reached us, breathing heavily after having run.

  “He confessed. Kinda proud of it, I’d say. Avenging his heritage, he said.”

  “Cy should never have made fun of his accent,” Mummy said. “Has someone called the fire brigade? Shouldn’t someone be getting out hoses and things?”

  “The men should be onto it by now and the fire trucks have been called. But the nearest fire department is a long way from here. Malibu, perhaps, or even Oxnard. And I can’t call again. The phone line is down.”

  “Then what are we going to do?” Mummy demanded.

  “Nothing much we can do,” the sheriff said. “As you can see that whole area in front of the gate is in flames. We’d never manage to drive through that.”

  “Then how do we get out?”

  “We should be okay here,” the sheriff said. “There’s a good gap between the house and the nearest foliage.”

  As he spoke flying embers fell crackling around us and we hurriedly stepped back inside.

  “That’s not good. Part of the house has a shake roof,” Ronnie said as he joined us with a terrified-looking Algie in tow.

  “Oh my God. We’re going to be burned alive,” Algie wailed. “Somebody do something.”

  “Do shut up,” Belinda said angrily. “I’m going to rescue my things from the cottage. I’ve a couple of Chanel outfits I’d hate to lose.”

  “Belinda, no.” I tried to grab her.

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll be quite safe. The fire can’t move as fast as that. I’ll be in and out in a jiffy.” And she ran down the hill. I was half tempted to follow her, wondering if I had anything worth saving. Then I remembered one thing. “Queenie. Queenie must be there, Belinda. And Mummy’s maid. Get them out.”

  We stood in the forecourt, waiting. Holding our breath while the swirling smoke stung our eyes and made us cough. We could see the flames rushing toward us from all sides. It really was quite terrifying. Suddenly a zebra burst from the trees, followed by another. A giraffe lumbered out at surprising speed. They stopped on the gravel, trembling, unsure where to go.

  “I wish Belinda would hurry up,” I said. The flames were awfully close now. Suddenly there was a great whoosh and crackle and the Brothers Grimm cottage where Bella had spent the night went up in flames.

  “Belinda!” I screamed.

  And at that moment Queenie emerged from the trees, running up the hill with surprising agility for one so large, followed by Claudette and Belinda, each with items hanging from a half-shut suitcase.

  “Oh, she’s brought my things. How thoughtful of her,” Mummy said. “She really is a gem.”

  I noted that Queenie hadn’t had the same sentiments about my stuff. She was running toward us like a charging hippo, her face red with determination.

  “I had no idea fire could move that quickly,” Belinda gasped, bru
shing a strand of hair from a sooty face as she reached us. “One minute we were fine and the next that horrid little German house went up, poof. Darling, I had to leave my favorite face cream behind, and do you know how much it cost in Paris?”

  “Better than being cooked to a crisp or having your face so badly burned that you’d never need it again,” I said.

  “You do have a point there, I suppose.” She wiped a smear of soot from her face again, but she was still looking longingly in the direction of the cottage.

  “Cor swipe me, miss,” Queenie said. “I thought I was a goner that time.”

  “Why didn’t you come up before?” I asked, feeling moved that duty had kept her to her post until instructed otherwise.

  “Well, Claudette was in such a state about packing your mum’s things that she wouldn’t get out. So I thought I’d better help her or she’d find herself trapped. I almost had to drag her out of there in the end, and then she tripped over a fallen branch and I had to go back for her again. Bloody Froggies.” She made a face. “It never struck me about packing up your things until it was too late. Sorry, but then your mum’s clothes are better than yours, aren’t they? And I thought she’d make a right old fuss if I didn’t save them for her.”

  The gardeners had now hooked up hoses and were making feeble attempts to prevent the wall of flame from reaching the house. But there were only two hoses and they were not long enough to cross the broad forecourt to the nearest of the trees. Antelopes burst from the forest and dashed past, only to be repelled by the flames behind the house. Smaller animals—a fox, squirrels, jackrabbits—joined them. Mummy’s description of the place being a bloody zoo was now suddenly apt.

  We could feel the heat now and the crackle of flames had become a roar. Smoke stung at my eyes so that I could hardly see.

  “Maybe we should go back into the house,” Craig suggested.

  “The fire trucks must get here soon.” Ronnie was staring down into the flames, almost willing himself to see fire trucks breaking through. “I don’t know if we’re any safer inside.”