The Black Witch, the White Lady, it was all so ridiculous. The details got progressively blurred with each storytelling, like a game of telephone. The Black Witch rode a black horse (how original), and, while not terrifying motorists like the White Lady, still enjoyed scaring the crap out of people. Her preferred victims were hikers and equestrians far off the beaten path. She showed herself only at dusk and dawn.
Deirdre shivered. The sun had already dipped below the hills behind them. They were hurtling east into the tunnel of trees that closed overhead like bony fingers joining together, the darkest part of Fairy Glen Road. She drove faster.
When they got there, Bonnie told Stephanie the surgery had gone well. She had been able to see Biscuit before and after. The prognosis was good.
A huge smile spread over Steph’s face.
Bonnie handed her a folder from the vet. Stephanie looked through the paperwork, whistling after the last page. “Thank god we have insurance,” she said softly. Deirdre winced. She was still making payments on Bowie’s colic surgery. Five grand on her credit card.
“How are you doing?” Bonnie put a hand on Stephanie’s arm.
“I can barely move. I’m in so much pain. They want me to walk, but I can barely keep any food down so I don’t have any energy.” She did look pale and weak. But more than that, she looked deeply depressed.
“Hey,” Deirdre said, “Have you ever gone horse camping? It’s really fun. By next summer, you and Biscuit will be all healed up and you can come down to Cuyamaca with us and the girls.”
Stephanie looked skeptical. Whether it was at the mention of camping, or being with ‘the girls’, Deirdre couldn’t say. But then she smiled and said, “Ok. Yeah, I’m looking forward to it.”
“So any news about when you’ll get out of here?”
“I’m doing everything I can to get out of this hospital and see Biscuit. It might be later this week, if PT goes well. But I’ll need some clothes from home.” She made a face. “I hate to ask, but could one of you do me another huge favor?”
Bonnie stepped aside as if to say This one’s all you.
“Of course.” Whatever Steph wanted would be way more doable than watching surgery. “Horse girls gotta stick together, right?”
Steph had given her a map, a list of clothes and toiletries, a key, and the alarm code. She said that Luis, her stable guy, would be the only one around but she’d let him know Deirdre was coming.
Deirdre took one of the back roads to Rancho Alto, enjoying the pink sunset. She was familiar with Alto Pequeños Road, and easily found the turn off to Via Colinas. This was the oldest part of Rancho Alto. The original homes whose owners had formed the covenant long ago.
The road wound through tall eucalyptus and palms, hedges of oleander, groves of citrus, and white barked maples in full color display, all shielding the old homes from prying eyes. It reminded her of dignified dowagers wearing classy clothing that covered everything (not too much skin!) Some of the newer houses, like the ones in San Amaro, were polar opposites, looking like tawdry trophy wives with fake tans on their big fake boobs, spilling out of a tight plunging polyester dress. Not a tree or a bush to cover any part of the house, the edifice carefully manufactured to look extravagant, at least from a distance.
The road went uphill, and near the dead end was Stephanie’s house number on a stone pillar. There was no gate, so she turned in and kept going up the long gravel drive towards the huge house. Down a slope to the right was a long white barn. Beyond that, green hills billowed into the distance, divided into pastures where horses grazed.
She pulled up to the house, a two-story Spanish Mission style with an arched portico along the front, and parked under the canopy of an ancient oak. Dogs barked down by the barn, little dogs. It was a warm evening, but cooling quickly. The pink light was turning fuchsia and violet through the spiderweb of branches overhead. Scents of jasmine wafted from the bushes that lined the portico.
“So this is how the other half lives,” she said aloud, unlocking the front door and pulling Stephanie’s note from her pocket. She imagined herself coming home to this. The alarm started beeping. Oh man, did she screw it up? She pictured Rancho Alto’s feared security team swarming the place, her trying to explain herself. She punched in the code on the keypad just inside the foyer. The beeping stopped, thankfully. She flipped on a light.
Saving a quick tour of the place for after she’d gathered Stephanie’s items, she climbed the staircase on the right of the foyer. The master bedroom was easy to find, with its oversized walk-in closet—as big as Deirdre’s bedroom—lined in cedar and illuminated by recessed lighting. It was immaculate. Stephanie had described it as a bit of a mess. Deirdre wanted to know what it looked like when it was organized.
From the chest of drawers she grabbed a few pairs of very nice, expensive undies and some socks. She spotted a Louis Vuitton overnight bag on one of the shelves, and put them in it, then added a pair of yoga pants and a long sleeved shirt, and a fleece zip up, just in case it was cold out when Stephanie got released from the hospital.
She allowed herself a brief moment of running her hand along the rack of hanging clothes—dresses, skirts, silk blouses, trousers, suits…all in natural fabrics like silk, wool, cotton. There was a shelf of sweaters next, hand met cashmere, and her fantasy closet reached its peak.
Next was the shoe rack. She tossed a pair of Keds in the bag, and not being much of a shoe freak, moved on.
That is, until she saw the boots, lined up on the floor like soldiers at attention. How many pairs of leather riding boots did Stephanie have? And her own were ruined from wading in the water to save Stephanie. She closed her eyes and turned away.
The closet had another door that led directly into the spectacular bathroom. The huge windows and the glow from the closet provided enough light to see by. There was a marble shower with three shower heads, a double vanity sink, and a clawfoot tub in a huge bay window. She put a hand on the porcelain. She was a sucker for old-fashioned bathtubs.
The shower was so big she had to step inside. She took the Bumble and Bumble bottles and tossed them in the bag after popping one open to smell it. That was it, last thing on her list.
The shower was glass on three sides, and the windows overlooked the pool out back, a plain rectangular shape set deep into the back yard, with a row of pointy cypress as a backdrop. The water’s still surface reflected the twilit gloom. Mesmerized by the deep blue liquid, she just stared for a bit, wondering if Stephanie showered with these windows right here. Was she that confident in the security of the estate that nobody would be outside peeping in? But what if you had guests outside? She had finally decided there must be reflective mirror surface on the window, when something moved against the dark curtain of cypress. Her heart did a double thud. A figure stood up from a lounge chair on the far side of the pool, facing away from her. His dark suit had camouflaged him against the shadowy bushes.
He turned and lit a cigar, and his profile was visible. She stood transfixed, watching his reflection in the pool, recognizing it. A face like a carved stone god, heavy cheekbones, flattened nose, curlicued lips. A body like a gladiator. Someone who gets things done for a living.
The man with the gun.
He breathed out, an exhale of smoke like a volcano, facing the sky. Then, he turned and looked directly up at her.
She stepped back, heart racing, and in the next second burst into motion, quickstepping back through the closet and out the bedroom.
The alarm started beeping.
She froze in the hallway, almost to the head of the stairs. Should she run back and hide somewhere in the bedroom? No, of course not! She should get the hell out the front door, ASAP, even if he was coming in the back door, she just had to run, get out. That’s what all the crime shows said.
But as she flew down the stairway, the front door came into view, and it was opening. She stopped, turned, tripped and landed against the corner of the hard tile steps, scrambled to her feet, tiptoeing up th
e stairs as a man entered, holding a cellphone between his ear and shoulder as he punched in the alarm code.
This wasn't the guy out back. This guy didn't see her, kept talking on the phone, angrily. “No, it won't work now. Look, this was your idea, and it didn't work. It was supposed to be a sure thing—” he stopped mid-sentence as he turned around. A second passed as he evaluated her, then said, “I have to go. No, the maid is here. I’ll see you soon.” He closed the phone with a snap.
Exhaling with relief, she descended the rest of the stairs and put out her hand. “I’m Deirdre Boyd.” This was Bartley. She had a vague remembrance of seeing him far away at county supervisors meetings when they were opposing San Amaro. About fifty or so, sandy haired with lots of gray. His eyes were sharp and perceptive beneath strong brows. He set his briefcase down and warily took her hand. As they shook, she realized that they were about the same height. “Sorry to surprise you,” she apologized. “You must be Brian Bartley.”
“You're not the regular maid,” he said.
“Oh,” she said, “No, I'm not the maid…” His brows scrunched together even more, as he looked her up and down, stopping on the bag in her hand. “Oh, this? This is Stephanie's stuff.” She held up the Louis Vuitton bag.
“I can see that,” he said. “What are you doing with it? And why are you in my house?”
“Oh! I'm Deirdre Boyd,” she started again. This was going horribly. “Uh, look, were you expecting someone? There was a man in your backyard, I saw him from the window upstairs, and it scared me, which is why I'm a little…” She fanned her hand near her chest to indicate her nervousness.
His eyes shot to the French doors at the back of the house. Keeping his eyes on her, he walked to them and then quickly looked outside, left and right. She wanted to follow him and look too, but her fear of the other man prevented her. Instead she asked, “Is he still out there?”
“No. Nobody.” He turned. “Now, who are you again?”
He stared, as if she was a pest he'd stumbled upon, not quite sure how to dispose of. She felt suddenly aware of how muscular he was, despite his lack of height. His pecs rippled beneath his dress shirt, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. She kept talking even though she wanted to run out the door.
“I’m so sorry, I thought Stephanie would've told you—she said you were out of town, that's why I'm here. I’m so sorry about her accident. It was just awful.” She waited for a reaction. “I was there. At the show. Which is why I'm here now.” More silence. “Stephanie asked me to bring her some things,” she indicated the bag again. He seemed to relax, finally. “Are you sure there’s nobody out there? I saw him, it was a guy—”
“It was probably just Luis. He knows he's not allowed to use the pool. I’ll have a talk with him.”
“Oh.” She felt terrible now. “No, uh…” Besides, was that Luis? Was the man she'd seen out on the promontory Stephanie's stable hand? He certainly didn't dress like one.
Bartley turned to her. “I’m sorry—how do you know Stephanie?”
“Well, we just met at the show on Saturday, but I guess we sort of already know each other. Your son and mine are friends.”
He straightened his back, frowning. “My son?” The tension was back.
“Yes, Brian Jr.?” She smiled, hoping to set him at ease. “And Justin Boyd. That's my son. You took them golfing last week?”
“Oh, yes, yes. Justin.” His face relaxed into a smile. “The scholarship kid, from Fairy Glen. Good kid.”
“Yes he is,” she said, irritated at his subtle rudeness. “I hear he won the game too.” Despite being a scholarship kid.
Brian Bartley loosened his tie and ran a hand through his thick hair. “I—look, I really have to let you go, I was already late…” He flashed a tank of a watch, probably cost more than her car—heck, probably cost more than her old house—and ushered her to the front door.
She gathered herself up and turned to face him after crossing the threshold. “Nice to meet you Mr. Bartley.”
He gave her a big toothy smile. “Nice to meet you, uh, Deirdre was it?”
Her smile cracked as she nodded and turned to leave. With her back to him, she silently mimicked his condescending brush off. Deirdre, was it?
She trudged through the gloom to her car, her shoes crunching on the carefully raked pea gravel.
There was something aggressive, even cruel about him. Like the way he assumed she was the maid. Although, as she evaluated the Bronco, she couldn’t blame him for the confusion. His car, a sleek black Mercedes, sat a short distance away.
And of course he worked out—there was no reason to find that menacing. People this rich were like the machines they drove—carefully maintained. No hair out of place, clothes impeccably clean and well-made. Despite the age difference, she understood what Stephanie saw in him. They’d make a very attractive couple. A vision of an imaginary social scene photo from some charity event or another formed in her mind. Both in black, him in a tux, her in the proverbial little black dress with her shiny, tawny hair hanging loose.
But he was still a jerk.
She dug her keys out of her purse, noticed he was still watching her. She purposely took her time, glancing over at the beautiful barn, one more time. Her eyes traveled out into the pastures, waves of soft green in the near darkness. In the grassy aisle between two pastures on the hill, two horses, their manes flipping with each stride, were being led back to the barn for the night. Between them, holding their leads, was a short, stocky, bowlegged man in a baseball hat and rubber boots, while a horde of tiny chihuahuas darted in and out of the horse’s hooves. That was Luis. So who was the other guy?
The growl of an approaching engine shattered her daydream. A shiny orange muscle car roared up and did a half donut around the big tree, peppering gravel onto Brian’s car with little ping ping sounds. The door flew open, and a long, tan, high-heeled leg emerged, followed by a woman in exactly the kind of dress she had pictured on the drive over—tight, polyester, purple print, plunging. She teetered towards the door, swinging a large gold and black plastic shopping bag. “Honey, I’m home!” she called out and then laughed, tossing her frizz of wild over-processed hair. She glanced over at Deirdre, called out “Muy limpia?” then squinched her freckled nose and waved her fingers. “Adios!”
Deirdre got in and started the Bronco, then snuck a peak in the rearview, where she saw Brian Bartley snatch the shopping bag, then practically shove the woman inside the house.
She was still looking in the mirror when he stepped back outside and looked straight at her back window.
Goosebumps prickled on her arms. She put the car in drive and pulled forward, around the huge oak tree, past the orange car, past his car which crouched in the driveway like some coiled creature ready to pounce.
Only then did he disappear back inside. No wonder he’d been so nervous.
She had just seen something she wasn’t supposed to see.
Tuesday, October 9
STEPHANIE’S EYES WERE CLOSED when Deirdre entered her room. An uneaten breakfast sat on the tray table. Styrofoam eggs and enough various liquids to float a small navy—tea, coffee, cranberry juice, and milk.
Trying not to wake her, Deirdre placed the tote bag on the window ledge near the bathroom. When she turned, Stephanie was trying to sit upright, but she winced in pain. Deirdre rushed to her. “No no, don’t get up. I just brought your things.” She perched on the chair next to the bed.
“Thanks.” Stephanie closed her eyes again. Frown lines formed, then vanished. She groped around and pressed the button attached to her IV tubing. She turned back to Deirdre, her smooth, brown skin accented by the light blue of the hospital gown. “Did you have any trouble getting in?”
“Uh no. No, not at all. You have a beautiful home. Hey, Stephanie, just curious, what does Luis look like?”
“Oh, you didn’t see him when you were there? Well, he’s an ex-jockey. Funny story, that’s actually how we met—”
/> “So he’s short?” Deirdre cut her off.
Stephanie pinched her eyebrows together. “Yeah, he’s short, and now he’s bulked up a bit since he doesn’t have to be manorexic anymore…why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing…”
“Did something…happen at the house?”
“No, no, it all went fine.” Just a man with a gun creeping around your backyard, and your husband meeting up with some skanky-looking woman. “Here,” she brought the bag over to change the subject, “I think I got everything you asked for. Take a look.”
“No, no, that’s fine. I trust you,” she said, waving away the bag and pressing the pain med button again.
“I think you just did that,” Deirdre said. “Is it every ten minutes? It hasn’t been ten minutes yet.”
Stephanie looked confused. “It hasn’t?”
“Anyway, I found everything super easy. You’re very organized. I love your closet.” She grabbed her purse, preparing to leave.
“I’ve got it all to myself now,” Stephanie said, one side of her mouth curling down.
You poor thing. A walk in closet all to yourself. Deirdre laughed a little. “Wish I had one all to myself.”
Stephanie looked about to say something else, but it seemed like the words caught in her throat and she instead fixed her gaze on the rose bouquet, which had wilted slightly since Sunday. “Yeah, well…see, Brian’s working on a new development, up on Richardson Peak—”
“I know,” Deirdre said. She tried to return her voice from bitter to neutral. “I’ve seen it. Must be a great view from up there, eh?”
“Yes, there are great views. Ocean, inland, practically 360. That’s one of the selling points. Unfortunately, Brian’s gung-ho on living up there, but I—there’s no room for horses, for one thing. I’ve gotten so fond of that old house in Rancho Alto I just can’t imagine moving now.” Only Stephanie could refer to a giant mansion as an old house. “So, we disagree, and Brian’s basically moved to his condo at the country club. Although, we’d been living separate lives for a while now anyway.”
October's Fire (Fairy Glen Suspense Book 1) Page 12