Hand of Evil ar-3

by J. A. Jance

  “So?”

  “I’d like you to buy it,” Arabella said. “For this.”

  Using a pencil, she jotted a sum down on a three-by-five card and shoved it through the opening under the window that separated them.

  Ali looked at the amount and put the paper down. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. “That’s pennies on the dollar, too.”

  “Yes, it is,” Arabella said. “But you wouldn’t tear it down. And anything that’s left after I pay off Mr. Hatfield will go to a good cause-to the scholarship trust fund-which I’m hoping you’ll administer, by the way. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Ali shook her head. The amount was something she could well afford, but she didn’t think she’d have the energy to tackle the kind of wholesale remodeling that would be necessary.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s far more house than I need.”

  “Please,” Arabella said quietly. “I’d really like for you to have it. And I know Mother would, too.”

  Ali stood up. “I’ll think about it,” she said. “But I’m not making any promises.”

  “Wait,” Arabella said. “Don’t go yet, please. I need to ask you. How’s your friend-the little girl who ran away?”

  “The guy who molested her is in jail,” Ali said. “And she wasn’t his only victim.”

  “So, did I help?” Arabella asked.

  “What do you mean, did you help?”

  “Did you tell her about me? Did you use me as an example so she’d go to the police?”

  Ali looked at Arabella-a pathetic, damaged, delusional old woman-and she could not deny her that one bit of satisfaction.

  “Yes,” Ali lied. “Yes, I did.”

  On the drive back to Sedona, Ali felt little satisfaction for having lied and allowed Arabella that one small triumph. Driving through town, Ali saw her mother’s Alero parked outside the Sugarloaf. The Bronco wasn’t there. Wanting some private time with Edie, Ali stopped and knocked.

  “Are you all right?” her mother asked as soon as she saw her face.

  “I saw Arabella Ashcroft today,” Ali said.

  “Oh,” Edie said. “No wonder you look a little green around the gills.”

  “She wants me to buy her house.”

  “Arabella has a lot of nerve calling it her house,” Edie said. “She may have lived in it, but it was always her mother’s house. Anna Lee Ashcroft was a nice woman. And if you do decide to buy it, that’s how I’d think of it-as Anna Lee’s, not as Arabella’s.”

  Ali was quiet for a moment. Finally she said, “I never really knew that Aunt Evie and Arabella were good friends. From what Arabella told me, I guess they were. She said it was because of that friendship that she and her mother started the scholarship thing-that to begin with, the whole point was to benefit me.”

  “Arabella was always a conniver,” Edie said. “I think she was after your Aunt Evie and saw you as a way to get Evie into her clutches. She might have succeeded, too, but Anna Lee warned Evie away. And then she went ahead and set up the scholarship fund so other girls would benefit from it, too, not just you.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ali said. “What kind of clutches? What do you mean?”

  “Oh, forever more, Ali,” Edie said with a laugh. “Just because your Aunt Evie stayed in the closet all her life, don’t tell me you didn’t know about it.”

  Learning that bit of Aunt Evie’s history hit Ali hard. And knowing how Richard Masters and Curtis Uttley had used the Internet to victimize and ensnare Crystal didn’t help. The whole chain of events had cast a pall over Ali’s life and over her interest in cutloose as well. She could no longer look at what happened on the Internet as being harmless and she wasn’t sure if she was helping or making things worse.

  She drifted into a strange lassitude. Her interest in blogging seemed to have dissipated, but she had no idea what she was going to do instead. She did some random posting, but without having her heart in it. When she finally heard from Velma T, she read the message with a heavy heart.

  …so the second opinion concurs with the first one-that there’s not that much to be done for me. There are experimental protocols-expensive procedures-that I could possibly qualify for, but most of those wouldn’t be covered by insurance. So, my son and his golfing buddy doctor were right about my prognosis and their why-bother attitude, but I will insist to the death-which may be sooner than later-that they were ABSOLUTELY WRONG!!! not to tell me. It’s my life. My decision.

  So, here’s what I’m going to do. I’ve got that book about a thousand things to do before I die, and I’ve also looked into one of those luxury round-the-world tours that will hit a bunch of them at one fell swoop.

  There’s one that leaves Las Vegas, Nevada, on March first and lasts for twenty-five days. Private jets and first-class hotels all the way. By the time it’s over, if I’m not dead or dead broke, I should be close to it.

  Maybe, Ali thought, I was wrong to be worried about Velma’s financial situation. She continued reading:

  When I called to inquire about reservations, it turned out that there was only a single pair of accommodations left on the trip. Since I was a single, I thought that left me out, but then the reservations lady came up with a wonderful idea. It seems there was another person who had inquired about that same trip, another single, who’s a retired schoolteacher from Washington State. So we ended up booking our trip together. Her name is Maddy Watkins. She’s quite a bit younger than I am, but we’ve been e-mailing back and forth, and she sounds delightful.

  Thank you for encouraging me not to stand around waiting for life or death to happen. If I die somewhere along the way, my son can damned well pay to have me shipped home. And if I get home and I’m still feeling well enough and have any money left over, I may book a cruise, too.

  I miss your blog. I know something bad must have happened, and I know you’re not ready to say what it is. Just know that you’ve made a huge difference in my life and probably in lots of other lives, too.

  Love,

  VELMA T IN LAGUNA

  On a sunny evening in March, Dave Holman came by for dinner. While Athena and Chris laughed and cooked in the kitchen, Ali and Dave sat outside on the front porch on the swing, sipping some of Paul Grayson’s very expensive wine. They were spending more and more time together these days. Ali wasn’t sure where the relationship was going, but for now she was comfortable with it.

  “The custody hearing’s next week,” Dave said, draping one arm around her shoulder. “We’ve hammered out an arrangement that seems reasonable, and we’re pretty sure the judge will go along with it. Richey will be a senior next year, and he’ll stay in Vegas to finish high school. After that he’s planning on joining the Marines.”

  “Like father like son,” Ali said.

  Dave nodded. “And the girls will spend half the summer there, then they’ll come live with me and go to school here. They’re thrilled. Of course, it means I’ll have to find somewhere else to live, but with Roxie paying child support…”

  Ali was astonished. “She’s agreed to pay child support?”

  “That’s what I said. It’s a reasonable arrangement. And I have to give Gary Whitman credit. He’s the one who came up with the idea and convinced Roxie that it was doable. After what happened to Crystal, I think he wants the girls out of Vegas even more than I do. When Richard Masters agreed to a plea bargain and Crystal no longer faced having to testify, Gary was so relieved that I thought he was going to burst into tears.”

  Ali said nothing. After a pause, Dave added, “It really chaps my butt.”

  “What does?”

  “Gary and I aren’t ever going to be friends,” Dave said. “But he isn’t that bad a guy. Maybe he’s not the best businessman who ever came down the pike, but he’s a better husband to Roxie than I ever was, and she’s happier with him than she was with me. I just have to make sure he’s not a better father.”

  Again Ali had nothing to say. She found that happened t
o her often these days.

  “Speaking of fathers,” Dave continued, “I saw yours today. Bob’s worried about you.”

  “He is?” Ali asked.

  “And so am I,” Dave said. “You’re depressed, Ali. You’re not yourself. You’re not even blogging anymore. You’ve been through a lot. Have you ever heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?”

  “Of course, I’ve heard of PTSD,” Ali said dismissively, “but it’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “Yes, it does,” Dave argued. “Your father and I have both been around it. We know the signs. You need to see someone. You need help.”

  “No, I don’t,” Ali declared, ducking out from beneath Dave’s arm. “All I need is some sleep. You and Dad need to mind your own business. And since I’m not feeling very sociable at the moment, maybe you should just go.”

  “No deal, Mom,” Chris said, materializing silently in the open doorway behind them. “Dinner’s on the table, and Athena and I say Dave isn’t leaving.”

  The next day, it was all Ali could do to drag herself out of bed. By midafternoon, she was still in her robe and worrying about getting dressed before Chris came home from school when the doorbell rang. When she looked through the peephole, she was surprised to find Leland Brooks standing there in all his rhinestone cowboy glory. He looked tanned and fit and surprisingly chipper. The Rolls, shiny as ever, was parked in the driveway behind him.

  At first Ali wasn’t going to open the door. He rang the bell again though, and she opened the door.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for dropping by this way,” he said. “I came over from Prescott to check on the house, and I wanted to see you.”

  Grudgingly, Ali invited him inside.

  “I’ve had a letter from Miss Arabella,” he said. “Several of them, in fact, all of them asking that I intercede with you on her behalf and beg you to reconsider your decision about purchasing her place.”

  “I thought that was all set,” Ali said. “I thought a developer was going to take it and tear it down.”

  “He thought so, too,” Brooks said, “but that was before some of the neighbors got together and had it placed on the National Historical Record. The house is considered second-generation Frank Lloyd Wright and all that. Then there was another possible buyer, but his offer fell through. The house failed the inspection-rather miserably, I’m afraid, and his bank wouldn’t approve it.”

  “What does any of this have to do with me?”

  “Miss Arabella wanted me to let you know that we’ll take less than she told you earlier, although I’m not sure what that amount was. She said that if you’ll make an offer somewhere in that neighborhood, as long as the offer is from you, the real estate agent and I are both directed to accept it. She also said your offer should include the house’s contents. That way, when you refurb it, you’ll be able to use as many of Mrs. Ashcroft’s original furnishings as you wish. You’ll be able to bring the house back to what it once was-what it never was with Miss Arabella living in it.”

  Ali was tired-more tired than she’d ever been in her life. “Look,” she said. “I don’t really care what Miss Arabella wants.”

  “It’s what I want, too,” Brooks said. “And I’d be more than willing to come help oversee the remodeling project. I know where the original blueprints are, and believe me, I know what’s wrong and what needs fixing. I suppose you could say, in a manner of speaking, that I know where the bodies are buried.”

  With his eyes twinkling, Brooks seemed to be waiting for Ali to smile, but that was more than she could muster.

  “I’ve spoken to Mr. Holman about this,” he said finally. “He thinks it would be a good idea for you to take on a project.”

  More meddling on Dave’s part. Ali was suddenly angrier than she had been in months. “This is none of his business!” she exclaimed. “And it’s none of yours, either.”

  “Oh, but it is,” Leland Brooks said. “Has anyone mentioned to you that you look quite dreadful?”

  “How kind of you to point that out,” Ali said.

  “Here it is, late afternoon, and you’re not even dressed.”

  “Excuse me,” Ali said. “This isn’t any of your business, either.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I believe it is. Do you know much about the Korean War?”

  “No,” Ali said. “Not really.”

  “I was in it,” he said. “I was in Forty-one Commando Royal Marines-a cook. So I saw a lot of action but I didn’t do much fighting. I fed the guys who did, but I didn’t think I was worth much. I came home from the war and I was ready to just sit around and do nothing, but then a miracle happened-two of them actually. Someone sent me his Silver Star.”

  “Like a war medal?” Ali asked.

  Brooks nodded. “It belonged to a guy named Arthur Reed, whose life I happened to save when his vehicle crashed through some ice and he almost drowned. He sent me the medal when the war was over. Said he never would have been alive to receive it if I hadn’t saved his sorry butt to begin with.” Brooks fell quiet for a moment and then continued.

  “I was always a bit different back home. My family wasn’t keen on having people of my persuasion hanging about. After the war I tried going home where my own parents treated me like an outcast. For a while I sat around wallowing in self-pity, but after Art sent me that medal, I made up my mind to come here to the U.S. in hopes of starting over. Once I got here, the other guy, the second Marine, heard that Anna Lee was looking for a bodyguard and driver, and he put me in touch with her. So that was the second miracle. The rest is history.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Ali asked.

  “Because, according to what Mr. Holman tells me, you’ve been through your own kind of war, Ms. Reynolds. And I think you’ve earned your own kind of medal. When the police release it from evidence, I want you to have it.”

  “I can’t possibly…”

  “Yes, you can,” Brooks insisted. “I’m like Art Reed, you see. I had no idea how far gone Miss Arabella was. If it hadn’t been for you, chances are, I’d be dead now, too, right along with Mr. Ashcroft the third. That’s why I’m determined to pass it along. And now I’d like you to get dressed and come with me. I want to take you for a ride.”

  “A ride,” Ali echoed. “Where to?”

  “To the house,” Brooks said. “To Anna Lee Ashcroft’s house. To what I hope will be your house someday. I’d like to show you some of the changes I think are in order. Come on now, Ms. Reynolds. Let’s go.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ali objected. “I know what you’re doing. This is exactly how you used to treat Arabella-how you’d talk your way around her and get her to do what you wanted. It’s how you got her to be…normal.”

  “Exactly,” Mr. Brooks said with a smile. “It worked for Miss Arabella, and I’m quite sure it will work for you as well.”

  CUTLOOSEBLOG.COM

  Saturday, April 1, 2006

  Happy April Fool’s Day. I woke up this morning laughing. What’s so funny? Well, let’s see. I’ve bought a house that needs everything-new plumbing, new wiring, new roof, new windows. How could any of that even remotely be construed as hilarious? For one thing, I’ve never built anything in my life.

  I’m sure I’ll have plenty of help. My father is itching to get his hands on the place. So is my son, Chris. So is Leland Brooks. So is Dave Holman.

  They’re all brimming over with suggestions about how to do this and that, and I’m prepared to take their ideas under advisement. But if this is going to be my house, I’m going to be the one with the final say. Next week I’ll be traveling down to Phoenix to interview several architects, and we’ll see if one of them measures up.

  People who’ve lived through their own remodeling projects tell me that tackling this kind of job is no laughing matter, but this morning I beg to differ. The clouds finally seem to have lifted. Fixing Anna Lee Ashcroft’s house is going to be dreadfully hard work, but I’m looking forward to it. In fact, I can hardly wait.<
br />
  After months of living in a fog of grief, I’m finally ready to step back out into the sunlight.

  Demolition? Plaster dust? Building permits? All I can say is, “Bring it on!”

  posted by Babe, 9:27

  A.M.

  FB2 document info

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