“Great office,” he said, looking around at her lush flower garden with its rosebushes, statuesque hollyhocks, nasturtiums cascading over stone walls, and then above at the wisteria hanging overhead. “Being a private detective, having meetings with clients in a peaceful, beautiful setting like this, it must be nice.”
“It can be,” she replied guardedly. “Depending on the case.”
“And the outcome of the case?”
“Yes. If it has a happy ending, then I’m glad I’m a PI and not a cowgirl or ballerina.”
His pale blue eyes locked with hers. They were filled with pain. “Are you going to be able to write a happy ending to our story, Savannah?” he asked, his voice tremulous.
“I sure hope so, Ethan. Really I do.” She looked down at her hands, folded demurely in her lap. “But even though I have no idea where Beth or Freddy are, you need to prepare yourself. As it turns out, there has been a new development. A most distressing one.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and stared at her. “I was afraid of that. When you asked me to come here, I . . . What is it? What’s happened?”
At that moment, Savannah felt some of what Dirk was, no doubt, experiencing. There was just no good way to deliver horrible news. For the person telling it or the person hearing it.
“Ethan, I regret that I have to tell you this, but we found Pilar.”
“You did?”
“Yes. We found her, and, I’m sorry, but she’s dead.”
He flinched at her words, as though someone had literally struck him. Hard. “Pilar? She’s dead?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, it can’t be. Are you sure?”
“Yes. I saw her body myself on a hill above Oak Grove. It’s a public park here in San Carmelita.”
“I know where it is. It’s my family’s favorite park. Beth and I drive there all the time and go hiking with Freddy. Pilar joins us, too.”
“Thank you for telling me that. It’s helpful.”
“Pilar is dead?”
He couldn’t seem to grasp what she was telling him, and as tears filled his eyes, she found herself thinking that no one, not even an Academy Award–winning actor, could portray shock and grief as well as Ethan Malloy was at that moment.
“No, no, no,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Not Pilar. She’s so kind. So gentle. How? How did she die? What happened to her?”
“We don’t know for sure yet. Dr. Liu, the coroner, will examine the body. Her report should tell us a lot more.”
“It can’t be foul play. It just can’t be. Pilar is a sweetheart. She doesn’t have an enemy in the world. Everyone who knows her, loves her.” He covered his face with his hands and began to sob. “Freddy loves her,” he said. “Beth and I, we all do.”
A new expression crossed his face—one of horror. “Her family,” he said. “Her poor, poor family. She’s an only child. Her parents will be devastated when they find out!”
“That’s what my husband is doing right now,” Savannah said. “He’s informing them.”
She reached toward the table next to her chair and offered him the box of tissues she kept there for exactly this sort of occasion. Unfortunately, she had found that tissues were as necessary for a private detective to have around as a cop or a psychologist.
He took some, wiped his face, and stuffed them into his jeans pocket. She waited quietly . . . for it to hit him.
It did.
Three seconds later.
“Oh, my God!” he said, his face growing ashen in an instant.
“If she’s dead, if someone deliberately hurt her, then maybe that same person—”
Savannah reached over and laid her hand on his arm. “I know it’s almost impossible not to go there, Ethan, but try very hard not to. Please wait for the ME’s report before thinking the worst, even about Pilar, let alone your family. It could have been an accident. It could have been . . . anything.”
Savannah thought of the wound on the side of the nanny’s head. Broken fingernails. The lonely seclusion of the area—the perfect place to commit a homicide.
As a rule, she tried not to lie to, or even deceive, a client. But if somehow, by some miracle, there turned out to be an innocent explanation to all that had happened, she hated to see a husband and father suffer even more than necessary, due to an overactive imagination.
As Ethan Malloy attempted to compose himself, Savannah searched her mind for the next best conversational path to take. Perhaps Pilar Padilla had no enemies, but she had to find out for certain if Ethan or Beth had any who might be capable of kidnapping or murder.
But first things first. The husband or lover of any woman who goes missing is always the primary suspect, as is the person who first reported their absence.
She had to find out if Ethan Malloy had an alibi or combination of alibis for the time period his wife had been gone.
In her experience, she had found it to be a tricky and sticky situation, asking a person for an alibi. Most people had watched enough television and movies to understand the gravity of such an inquiry.
Even among complacent and passive folks, the question, “Can you account for your whereabouts when . . . ?” tended to turn a nice and cooperative person into a guarded, even belligerent one.
So, she made her voice gentle and soft when she said, “I meant to ask you this morning, who was in the house yesterday morning when you and Beth had your argument?”
He thought for a moment. “Beth and myself, obviously. Then there was Pilar and Amy. Freddy and our housekeeper, Luciana. But Freddy was asleep upstairs and Luciana was up there, too, cleaning. I don’t think they were aware of what was going on.” He looked down and winced. “At least, I hope not. I’d hate to think Freddy overheard his parents arguing. I had enough of that myself, growing up. I wouldn’t want it for my son.”
“I understand.” She plunged ahead. “I know that Beth, Pilar, and Freddy left the house after your argument, but how about the rest? Amy, Luciana, and you. Where were the three of you for the rest of the day?”
There it was. The defensive look. The suspicion in the eyes. Ethan Malloy leaned back from her and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Why?”
“In a situation like this, everyone has to be accounted for at all times. I need to know that you knew where they were all day.”
She could tell by his scowl that he wasn’t buying it. “And you want to know if they knew where I was.”
“The police will certainly ask—you and them—so we might as well get it out of the way.”
“Fair enough.” He appeared to relax a bit as he ran his fingers through his dark hair and briefly massaged the back of his neck. “Okay, like I said, I know they were all in the house when Beth and I had our argument. Amy and Luciana were there the whole time that I was that day. Maybe not in the same room with me, but in the house. I could hear Luciana cleaning here and there, and Amy kept popping into the library, bothering me with details about petty social scheduling stuff. I remember because I wasn’t in the mood, and I didn’t appreciate it.”
“I can imagine.”
“But I can’t say for sure where they were or what they were doing during the time when I left the house to go out and search for Beth.”
Savannah felt something like a cold wind blow over her skin. It sent a shiver through her.
“You went out to search for them?” she asked with as casual a tone as she could muster.
“Sure. Later that afternoon, when they didn’t come back, and I couldn’t reach Beth on her cell, I went out looking. I felt really bad about the argument, and I wanted to make up with her. It’s not good to let stuff like that fester, you know?”
“Yes. I agree. Where exactly did you go? Tell me everywhere and in what order. Times, too, as best you can recall.”
She reached for a notebook and pen on the nearby table and started to make notes.
When she glanced up from her writing, she saw the
guarded expression was back in his eyes. For a moment, she recalled all the posters and ads she had seen for his movies and TV shows—eyes staring intently into the camera, with an intensity that was chilling. The eyes of a potentially dangerous alpha male.
“Do you think I killed my wife? Is that why you’re asking me these things, Savannah? Do you?”
“No,” she said without hesitation. “I don’t. But I won’t lie to you. The cops are going to consider you their main suspect, so you need to get used to answering these questions and a whole lot more.”
He closed his eyes, shook his head, and groaned. “This is exactly what I was hoping to avoid. I’m a private person. So is Beth. We hate the paparazzi, the way they can take the simplest thing and lie about it, and turn it into something horrible.”
“I’m sure that’s true, and then innocent people have to live with the stain of those lies for the rest of their days. I can understand why you want to avoid that, and I’ll do everything I can to help you in that regard. My husband will, too. Pilar’s death—he’s caught that case. He’ll be the senior investigator. Considering the size of the San Carmelita Police Department, he’ll probably be the only investigator, other than the medical examiner and the CSI team members.”
He seemed concerned so she quickly added, “But they’re very good at what they do, all of them. You don’t have to worry. They’ll get it right, and by the time they’re finished, we’ll know what happened to Pilar.”
“And Beth? And Freddy?”
“I won’t rest until I find them. Neither will my team. We know you want answers, and we’re going to do everything we can to get them back, safe and sound.”
He sat, saying nothing, for what seemed like forever to Savannah. Then he offered her a weak smile, leaned toward her, and covered her hand with his. Giving her fingers a squeeze, then a pat, he said, “Thank you. I appreciate that, Savannah. I really do. Your best effort is all anybody can ask.”
Before she could reply, her cell phone began to jingle. She knew it was Dirk calling, because the song it was playing was the stirring theme of the old television show Bonanza.
Apparently, his melancholy task of informing Pilar’s parents was finished, she thought, feeling somewhat relieved on his behalf.
When she reached for the phone, which was lying on the side table between her chair and Ethan’s, she accidentally knocked his empty beer can onto the ground. She reached for it, but it rolled away from her and under his chair.
“No problem,” he said. “I’ll get it.” He leaned down, retrieved the can, and replaced it on the table.
It was in that instant, when he was bending down, that Savannah saw something that frightened her and made her feel sick in her spirit.
For the briefest moment, as he had leaned down, the neckline of his T-shirt had dropped forward, away from his skin, revealing a few more inches of his neck and upper chest.
She saw them, and as much as Savannah wanted to, she couldn’t deny, even to herself, what she had seen.
Scratches.
Deep, red scratches. And bruising.
She tried not to tremble or sound as shaken as she felt, as she reached for the phone and said to Ethan. “Sorry. I have to take this.”
“Sure. Go ahead,” he said with a dismissive wave.
She looked into his eyes, searching for any sign that he might have noticed what had just happened. He didn’t appear to, but her relief was minimal at best.
She jumped to her feet, pushed the answer button on the phone, and tried to appear casual as she walked away from the arbor and toward the house. “Hi,” she said into the phone. “I’m glad you called, darlin’. Your timing’s perfect, as always.”
“I’m just leaving the Padillas’ place out here in the East End. Have you got Malloy there with you at the house?”
“I certainly do.”
She had reached the back door, but instead of going inside, she turned around and leaned against it.
In a strange, surreal way she was acutely aware of the heat from the sun-warmed wood against her shoulder blades and on down her spine, the hum of insects in the lilac bush nearby, the scent of its blossoms in the air, and in the far distance some kind of siren, screaming out an emergency.
She could see Ethan Malloy, still sitting quietly beneath her arbor, looking troubled, but thoughtful. Such a peaceful sight.
How deceiving, she thought, wondering what he was really thinking behind those famous blue eyes. What secrets weren’t being revealed on that handsome face?
“You aren’t going to believe what this Pilar gal’s parents told me,” Dirk was saying. “Of course, they fell apart when I told them that we found her and that she was gone. That’s to be expected, them being parents and all. But once they got control of themselves a little bit, they had a lot of beans to spill.”
“Oh?” Still stunned from what she had seen, Savannah couldn’t think of anything more to say.
“Yeah. Seems their daughter called them yesterday afternoon and told them about the big argument that your boy, Ethan, and his old lady had in the morning. Apparently, it was a doozy. The girl told her parents she had never seen either one of them so mad or heard them carry on like that before. Promised her folks that she’d tell them all about it in detail that night when she got home. But of course, she never got home, so we don’t know whatever juicy stuff she was going to tell them.”
When she didn’t reply, he added, “I’m going to have to talk to your guy there. Probably bring him to the station house and sweat him a bit.”
Finding her voice, Savannah said, “You’re definitely going to have to take him in. No doubt about it.”
“Why? Did you find out something good?”
“No,” she said. “Nothing good. In fact, it’s bad.”
“How bad?”
“He bent down and I saw inside his shirt. He’s all scratched up. Something fierce.”
There was a long silence on the other end. Then Savannah heard her husband say, “Whoa. That is bad.”
“Yeah.”
“That don’t bode well for the missing wife,” he said. “Or maybe even the kid.”
Savannah felt a sob welling up in her throat. She swallowed it and said, “Don’t. I can’t stand it. Don’t go there. Not unless we absolutely have to.”
“Okay. I hear ya. Don’t take any chances with that guy, babe. Watch yourself. I’ll get there as quick as I can.”
Savannah ended the call, then stood there against the door for a few moments more, soaking in the warmth from the door behind her, listening to the sounds of her garden and smelling its comforting scents. As always, she drew strength from these familiar surroundings, a tiny world that she, herself, had created and needed to replenish her soul.
She closed her eyes, reached deep inside her spirit, and found the necessary courage and resolve to take the next crucial steps.
Ethan Malloy wasn’t the only seasoned, accomplished actor in her backyard. She’d given more than a few Oscar-worthy performances in her life, too.
With a fake spring in her step, she made her way across the lawn, back to the arbor.
“Everything okay?” Ethan asked as she approached.
“Sure. Don’t you worry about a thing. That was my husband, and he’s on his way home right now. He’ll be here shortly.” She gave him her brightest, dimple-deepening, eye-twinkling smile. “Then we’ll really get this show on the road.”
Chapter 9
As Savannah drove her Mustang behind Dirk’s squad car, heading toward the San Carmelita police station, she decided to give her brother a call and see how he liked his new in-laws.
When Waycross answered, he sounded subdued, but happy to hear from her. “Hi, Sis. Looks like you’re gettin’ the hang of that new speakerphone,” he said, semi-cheerfully.
“It’s great. Like the guy who gave it to me and installed it,” she replied.
“Where you at?”
“Tailing Dirk as he transports Ethan Malloy t
o the station house. We’re about there, so I’ll make this short. I’m just wondering how you’re doing over there. If you can talk, that is.”
“Um, a little bit.”
She could hear voices in the background. Voices with an accent she didn’t readily recognize.
“How’s it goin’? You getting all acquainted with your new in-laws?”
“Do you recollect when the first Colonel met Mrs. Baker?”
“I do, indeed. Gran’s petunia patch was never the same after that . . . um . . . rendezvous.”
“Colonel Beauregard either.”
Savannah chuckled, recalling a memory, permanently seared into the hearts and minds of all nine of the Reid children.
Over the years, Granny had owned numerous generations of bloodhounds. Although she had given them unique first names, every single one had been dubbed “Colonel Beauregard” and all other names virtually forgotten.
The first, Colonel Abraham Beauregard, had been an adorable puppy, a sweet soul, loving to kids, gentle with other dogs, kind to strangers. Totally worthless as a watchdog.
He even loved cats.
Until Mrs. Baker.
The first Colonel had encountered the neighbor’s old black-and-white tuxedo kitty, Mrs. Baker, in Gran’s flower garden, and the violence committed upon his saggy, baggy, puppy personage had been a sorrow to behold, or so said Gran after the dust had settled.
Their neighbor’s oversized, exceedingly grumpy feline had snuck into their yard and ambushed the dog behind the carnation patch. She’d grabbed one of his prominent dewlaps with her left, sharp-clawed paw and held him tightly, while clobbering him mercilessly with her right. She’d landed more rapid-fire blows on his howling little puppy face in twelve seconds than most boxing champions did in twelve rounds.
Subsequently, a wrestling match had ensued that left much of Granny’s flower garden in shambles. By the time Mrs. Baker left the petulant pup, vanquished and humiliated, in the dust and sauntered away, the seeds of hatred had been sown.
Colonel Abraham and every subsequent Colonel thereafter had hated cats with a fervor unmatched in the Southern states since the “War of Northern Aggression.” Savannah contemplated what it must be like in the Tammy/ Waycross household, if her brother was comparing their afternoon with Lenora and Quincy Hart to the Petunia Patch Massacre.
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