by Jill Shure
&ldquoI don&rsquot know. Maybe a rock.&rdquo
&ldquoWhich could easily be at the bottom of the Pacific now.&rdquo
How odd that even though I&rsquod hated Courtney, the story&rsquos violence upset me. I braced myself.
&ldquoAccording to Barry, the killer had trouble burning her body. First he used newspapers and lighter fluid. It singed her skin but it didn&rsquot obliterate her. Next, the killer soaked rags in gasoline. Then he shoved the rags in every place he could. Under her arms, in her mouth. He even shoved some up inside her.&rdquo
I groaned.
&ldquoHe finally covered her in soaked rags. Then he lit her on fire. It still took forever to burn her.&rdquo
&ldquoDidn&rsquot anyone notice a smell or the smoke pouring out?&rdquo A question the world had asked the Germans after WWII regarding the death camps.
&ldquoGuess not. They think it happened between two-thirty and five. With the bars closed and the rest of population asleep ... I guess no one heard or noticed anything. Plus the police think her killer had an accomplice.&rdquo
On my drive home, I tried to imagine two names from Courtney&rsquos lizard book who knew each other and might&rsquove worked together. But it didn&rsquot make sense.
Jasper&rsquos gift arrived that afternoon while Sofia had tap class. A bright pink taser. A zapper which would knock my enemies on their butts, according to the video included.
Later, as I sped off to work for an evening appointment, I felt much safer with my new taser safely tucked inside my dresser drawer. Out of habit, I called Dancin&rsquo Beauties again to ask for McDade on my cell phone. Once again, he couldn&rsquot be found. An hour later, in the middle of a sales pitch, my phone rang.
&ldquo... and Sofia wasn&rsquot on the bus, and she never came by my place either,&rdquo Mrs. Odetts babbled sounding irate and out of breath. &ldquoSo I went by your place but she wasn&rsquot there. So I called the school but they swear she took the bus home. I&rsquom at my wits end.&rdquo
Panic seized me. I thought of my phone threats, the scary notes.
17
&ldquoHave you tried her friend, Darcy?&rdquo I asked, trying not to dissolve into hysterics.
&ldquoThey aren&rsquot speaking. They had a big fight,&rdquo she said.
&ldquoGirls at that age fight and make up every ten minutes. I&rsquoll call over there. Stay calm.&rdquo
Thank God my suspicions proved correct. Sofia had gotten off the bus at the previous stop with Darcy and blatantly ignored my rules for checking in first.
&ldquoHave you any idea how freaked out I was? How badly you scared Mrs. Odetts?&rdquo I ranted that evening.
Sofia sat on the sofa, head down, fingering her jeans. &ldquoI told you how much I hate going over to Mrs. Odetts. But you never listen.&rdquo
&ldquoIs that why you did this?&rdquo
&ldquoNo.&rdquo
&ldquoThen why?&rdquo
&ldquoDarcy invited me over. And then we got busy. And I forgot to call.&rdquo
&ldquoYou forgot? With everything that&rsquos going on?&rdquo
&ldquoWhat&rsquore you talking about?&rdquo
Damn. &ldquoI mean, you and I have to trust each other. We have to be safe.&rdquo
&ldquoJeez, Mom. You&rsquore so scared all the time. Four bolt locks on the door. And creepy Mrs. Odetts waiting for me at the bus stop like I&rsquom in kindergarten.&rdquo
&ldquoChildren are taken every day. So spare me the paranoid mother routine. Now, what&rsquove you got to say for yourself?&rdquo
&ldquoI&rsquom sorry.&rdquo Tears flowed down her cheeks.
&ldquoIt&rsquos okay,&rdquo I said, pulling her into my arms. &ldquoJust don&rsquot do it again.&rdquo
The next evening, steps from my apartment, digging for my house key, I suddenly froze. My front door stood ajar. With my heart about to climb through my brain, I gently dropped my things on the carpet and yanked out my taser.
Then Sofia&rsquos voice rang out. &ldquoGin!&rdquo
I sighed, catching my breath. Relief flooded my senses. Ken.
Staggering in, I dumped my purse and shopping bag on the dining room table. &ldquoHi there,&rdquo I said, anxious to sound casual yet upbeat.
Sofia and Ken barely glanced up from the floor.
Too bad I hadn&rsquot washed my hair or worn more flattering shoes. Ken hadn&rsquot dressed up either. He had on faded jeans and an old shirt. But while I looked wrung out, he looked like a Calvin Klein ad.
&ldquoThat&rsquos four games in a row,&rdquo Sofia bragged.
Ken handed her a twenty.
Snatching it, she laughed gleefully and stood. &ldquoNext time, let&rsquos play for ten dollars a game.&rdquo Kissing the bills, she danced down the hall to her room, and shut her door.
&ldquoYou staying for dinner?&rdquo I asked, digging through the shopping bag.
&ldquoIs there enough?&rdquo
&ldquoPlenty.&rdquo I pulled out a hot rotisserie chicken and a bag of clean lettuce.
While I prepared a salad, we chatted about small stuff. Until I managed to slip my Dancin&rsquo Beauties&rsquo strip routine into the conversation.
&ldquoYou did what?&rdquo Ken stared. He looked stunned, as if he&rsquod never noticed I had green eyes and blonde hair before. &ldquoIs this going to be a regular thing or what?&rdquo
&ldquoI dunno. The pay&rsquos awesome. And the manager did offer me a job.&rdquo
&ldquoJust how much did you take off?&rdquo
&ldquoEverything but my thong and heels.&rdquo
In a flash, Ken joined me in the kitchen. Pulling me away from the bag of romaine, he gazed into my face. &ldquoYou&rsquore full of surprises, aren&rsquot you?&rdquo He sounded annoyed. But the bulge growing under his jeans said otherwise.
Apparently, my stripping in front of strangers contradicted his image of me as a boring drudge who spent her days doing estate planning and her nights eating macaroni and cheese by the TV.
&ldquoHow about ten minutes alone in your bedroom?&rdquo he murmured, brushing his lips across my throat.
&ldquoHow about twenty?&rdquo
&ldquoWhen do we start?&rdquo
&ldquoAs soon as Sofia leaves for her friend&rsquos house,&rdquo I said, gazing into his deep brown eyes.
An hour later, after dinner, Sofia left with Darcy. And Ken and I were alone for the night.
I delayed rushing into the bedroom. Instead, I took my time choosing a CD and lighting candles. I could&rsquove dragged out the scene more by pulling down my bed covers and placing chocolates on the pillows. But since I hadn&rsquot made my bed....
Then a rousing Donna Summer song came on. I decided a strip routine might raise Ken&rsquos libido even higher. So there I was undraping myself again. The results were a sparkle in Ken&rsquos eyes and an aerodynamic lift to his loins. In a flash, we dove for each other.
But twenty minutes later, when he rolled off me and stared up at the ceiling breathing hard, I went into my usual mental tennis match. Was this the moment to confront him about Courtney? Or the time to ask who else was in the weekend line up? Or would it be better to wait until breakfast? After all, things between us were so peaceful right now. So I kept my mouth shut.
In the morning, Ken rushed off before I had the chance to grill him. Then Jasper called from Kennedy Airport. His flight to Rome had been delayed.
&ldquoI forgot to tell you that Miss Farrow&rsquos friend Sirhan Spector is Lebanese. But he&rsquos lived all over the Middle East. As well as London and Paris. His local address is on a private street in Rancho Santa Fe.&rdquo Then Jasper rattled off the address.
Within the hour, I was headed north on the freeway. The sky was a brilliant turquoise and the temperature a perfect seventy-two as I exited onto Via de la Valle in Del Mar and sped east. My GPS directed me past massive estates and horse ranches hidden behind magnificent tropical foliage, imposing gates, and dense citrus groves.
For some misguided reason, I expected Sirhan Spector&rsquos house to be like a mosque. Or something dark and seedy like a hovel in the C
asbah, where barefooted, dark-eyed children, covered in oozing sores, hid behind frightened women draped in heavy veils. In truth, it was more like Caesar&rsquos Palace in Vegas. And almost as big. To Courtney, this must have looked like the mother lode.
I parked outside tall twin gates. I pressed a buzzer on the gate, then waited, as I peered through the gate&rsquos bars at the huge white marble mansion.
In seconds, an accented female voice rang out. &ldquoWho is there?&rdquo
&ldquoBetsy Ross. I sell insurance and ...&rdquo
The gates swung open. Eyeing the lush surroundings, I trudged up the long driveway to a steep set of flagstone steps. At the top, I paused by two monolithic metal doors depicting a violent battle scene where men on fierce-looking steeds wielded swords at their enemy. Clutching a business card&mdashmy excuse for being here&mdashI rang the bell. A moment later, a woman dressed more Chanel Boutique than Bedouin slave dancer answered. Pounds of makeup covered her dark eyes. Jewels overwhelmed her neck, wrists, and caftan. I figured she had to be around forty. But it was hard to tell under the long robe and thick makeup.
&ldquoYes?&rdquo The woman&rsquos voice was deep, foreign, and disapproving. Her dark eyes regarded me as if she&rsquod found dog shit on her front step.
I lost my nerve. Trying to gain entree by pretending to sell insurance seemed insane. And the truth so much easier. &ldquoHi, I&rsquom Betsy Ross. A colleague of mine, Courtney Farrow, had your name listed in her phone book. And I&mdash&rdquo
The woman began to screech. In a flash, an older woman dressed in black shoved her way into the doorway. Between snarling guttural words at me in a foreign tongue, she and the younger woman began to argue loudly. I couldn&rsquot understand a syllable. However, I thought I heard the word whore followed by Courtney Farrow. This prompted the younger woman to start shrieking and wailing. Until she finally dropped to the marble floor and began pounding her fist. I froze, not sure what to do. Then the older woman&rsquos eyes narrowed with hatred, and her lips peeled back over her teeth. She began to mutter and make grunting noises which did not sound like an invitation to share a falafel sandwich.
I slowly backed away. But not before the older woman
noticed. Shrieking, she raised her fist and charged at me. Turning, I escaped down those stairs and that long drive with my lungs, heart, and feet pumping madly. I thanked God the front gates were still open. With the woman&rsquos foreign curses assaulting me, I managed to press the unlock symbol on my key ring. Throwing open my car door, I jumped in and locked the doors, seconds before she reached my car. A moment later she leaned against my car hood blocking my escape. Her dark eyes were wide with rage. Not satisfied, she rushed over to my window and started beating on the glass with her fist, cursing in an unfathomable tongue, and making hideous faces. At last she spat at me. A wad of phlegm oozed down the glass. After what seemed like an eternity, she kicked my tire then retreated back to the house.
With palsied hands, I managed to start the engine. I was about to test the horsepower under my hood, which Larry down at Car City swore would save my life one day, when I froze. A tall, extraordinarily handsome man had charged in front of my car. Waving his arms, he yelled, &ldquoWait!&rdquo
I did. Why? Because he was a cross between Cary Grant, George Clooney, and a dignitary you&rsquod see on TV at a United Nations Security Council meeting. He had thick silver black hair and magnificent dark eyes. Dressed in an elegant navy suit and a blinding white shirt, he didn&rsquot look homicidal. He looked like someone who would know his way around a room service cart the morning after a night of throbbing carnal lust.
Bending down, he knocked on my window.
I gave him two inches.
&ldquoPlease,&rdquo he panted, out of breath. &ldquoI am sorry you were received so rudely at my home.&rdquo His devastating brown eyes swept over me. I felt as if he could see through the steering wheel, the seat harness, and my new beige suit, right down to my bra and panties.
&ldquoYou must understand, my mother and my sister understand very little English. So it is easy for them to become upset. They meant no harm.&rdquo Then, like a parting of the Red Sea, a glossy brilliant smile cut through the man&rsquos tanned face. &ldquoYou must allow me to make this insult up to you.&rdquo
I gazed at his slender nose and full lips. At his chiseled jaw, at the cleft in his chin. And I knew this man standing before me had been Courtney Farrow&rsquos Waterloo. Here was sex on a kabob stick. A guy who could divert any woman from her true course in life. Even a gal with a cash register for a heart and the morals of a jackrabbit.
&ldquoHave we met before?&rdquo His dark gaze melted my resistance.
&ldquoI, that is ... no.&rdquo
&ldquoForgive me, but I was upstairs when I heard you mention Miss Farrow. Such a pity,&rdquo he said, looking genuinely stricken. &ldquoI would feel so relieved if you would permit me to properly apologize for my mother and sister by taking you out for coffee. Any place you like. Then you would be free to ask me about your friend.&rdquo
What could he do in a public place? &ldquoI guess one little latte couldn&rsquot hurt.&rdquo
&ldquoPlease, you will follow me. I will return in my car.&rdquo He grinned, flashing those dazzling teeth again.
He hurried up his drive and returned a minute later, behind the wheel of a huge new Mercedes. I followed his car down the long winding road until we merged onto Avenida Delicious. He soon led me into the parking lot at the Rancho Santa Fe Inn. He&rsquod obviously done this routine before. Maybe he met Courtney herself here. And not for coffee. The place had plenty of rooms and private bungalows.
A moment later, my feet crunched across the drive as I followed Sirhan&rsquos tall form inside the old Spanish inn. I decided he probably looked good naked. He seemed solid, like he either worked out or played loads of tennis. He probably had great legs and shoulders. His olive skin looked warm and smooth. I already knew he had a big bank account.
The restaurant with its linen tablecloths, flowers, and uniformed waiters felt luxurious and stiff. Yet, I couldn&rsquot imagine Sirhan waiting in line at some take-out place. Because Sirhan Spector was not your average guy. To Courtney, he must have looked like everything she&rsquod ever wanted. Handsome, charming, cosmopolitan, and rich. No doubt, Courtney had been swept away by these attributes even more than I was. But what had she meant to him? Because I had another gut feeling. I sensed that Sirhan liked women. All women. Sexy red-haired beauties like Courtney. Slim, curly haired, green-eyed blondes like me. And large overweight brunettes like Arlene.
&ldquoTwo coffees, please,&rdquo Sirhan told the waiter. &ldquoOr would you care for something to eat? It&rsquos almost lunch time. Suppose we get menus?&rdquo
&ldquoWell, okay.&rdquo
As he studied the daily specials, I studied him. It was like having lunch with the big bad wolf. Or at the very least a clever foreigner who wanted to see me naked. Because Sirhan oozed charm and savoir faire. His nails had been polished. He smelled spicy. And he might or might not be circumcised.
&ldquoSo, tell me, how do you know my friend Courtney?&rdquo he asked, offering me cream for my coffee.
&ldquoWe socialized with the same group. And I sold her insurance.&rdquo
&ldquoYou do well with this selling?&rdquo
&ldquoSomewhat well.&rdquo I spent a long time pouring cream and sugar into my coffee, because Sirhan made me nervous. I felt like a friend of my father&rsquos had just suggested I put on black crotchless undies and meet him in his room for a long lunch.
&ldquoWe were all very upset to hear about Courtney&rsquos disappearance. I cannot imagine what happened.&rdquo His dark eyes looked sad, but I thought I saw a tiny bit of relief. Unless I imagined it.
&ldquoDid you know her well?&rdquo I asked, thinking of his love letter. And the lizard book with the 180 by his name. Not to mention the mink coat from Saks.
&ldquoShe was my mistress.&rdquo
I choked, dribbling coffee down my blouse.
&ldquoOh, my English,&r
dquo he muttered. &ldquoIt is so clumsy.&rdquo
&ldquoNo, it&rsquos excellent.&rdquo Wiping my blouse, I said, &ldquoYou were in love.&rdquo
I could see a list of answers rushing through his handsome brain. At least I&rsquod bet it was handsome. Even his tanned hands were strong yet elegant. Hands that had loved Courtney. And possibly doused her in corn oil, too.
&ldquoIt was like fire for a time. A woman with great imagination and passion. Can you understand this?&rdquo
My head bobbed up and down.
&ldquoBut fires ... well ... they must grow cold in time. So ... we became friends.&rdquo
A lie. Courtney had no friends. Just men who paid. But maybe just this once, maybe she&rsquod made an exception.
&ldquoDid she mind that you were ... married?&rdquo
&ldquoI never lied about this. I believe it is best to be honest in such matters. So, tell me, Miss Ross. Are you married?&rsquo His hand was now on top of my own while his penetrating gaze sought an answer.
&ldquoI ... was.&rdquo
&ldquoBut you are not now.&rdquo Hope filled his expression.
&ldquoNo&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoAnd you live alone?&rdquo
&ldquoWith my daughter.&rdquo He pulled his hand away. &ldquoAnd I have a boyfriend,&rdquo I said.
Regret filled his eyes. Then his face relaxed. &ldquoSo, you are in love.&rdquo
&ldquoWell ... yes. But I hope you and I can still be friends. And I hope I can call you in the future in case I need more information. By the way, exactly when did your affair with Courtney end?&rdquo
&ldquoI cannot put an exact date on an affair of the heart.&rdquo
&ldquoWell, can you tell me if you were still being friendly when she first disappeared?&rdquo
&ldquoYes, but just friends. You understand?&rdquo
&ldquoSure.&rdquo Providing he was telling the truth. &ldquoAnd the night that she was ... killed, do you recall where you were?&rdquo
&ldquoAt home with my family of course. I do not mean to be impertinent, but you have many questions for just a friend.&rdquo
I gave him a small smile. &ldquoIt comes from being in sales. I always ask a lot of questions.&rdquo