That probably explained a few things, Zoe thought, such as why the Casa de Oro had always looked so down at the heels. Maybe there was something to be said for the rules-are-rules type.
But she was in no mood to admit that to Pixie Ears.
She went outside and got into her car.
She was still fuming an hour later when Tabitha Pine, flamboyantly ethereal in a dress that looked as if it had been fashioned from a lot of expensive silk scarves, floated into her office. The tiny bells stitched to the bottom of her skirts tinkled.
“Zoe, dear, I hope you don’t mind me dropping in on you without an appointment.” Tabitha smiled, serenely sure of her welcome. “I would have called but I had to come into town this morning to do some shopping so I thought I’d see if I could catch you. I only need a moment.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” Zoe immediately switched into client mode. “I don’t have another appointment until eleven. Please sit down.”
“Thank you.” Tabitha settled into one of the two chairs on the other side of the desk. The scarves fluttered for a few seconds and then obediently went still. “I will come right out with it. I had one of my psychic visions last night while I was traveling on the astral plane. I felt that I had to get in touch with you and Lindsey Voyle as soon as possible so that I could tell you both about it.”
“I see.”
Zoe reminded herself that she was in no position to doubt Tabitha’s psychic visions. Nevertheless, it was difficult to take seriously a woman of some sixty years who dressed like a hippie from the latter half of the last century.
Tabitha’s hair was her most arresting feature. It was silver and gray and it fell down her back and around her shoulders in long, flowing waves. Zoe had heard that there was a fashion rule that dictated that the older a woman got, the shorter her hair was supposed to be cut. Obviously, Tabitha did not believe in following that law of nature.
“I’ve been thinking about the best way to convey a sense of my personal style and energy-flow requirements to you and Lindsey Voyle. I want you both to have all the vital information you’ll need to draw up your proposals.”
“Oh.” Zoe tried to think of something more to say but nothing sparkling came to mind. She was suddenly feeling very wary.
“In my vision I saw you and Lindsey attending a few of my meditation seminars,” Tabitha said. “As soon as the picture flashed into my mind I realized that is the only way that the two of you can possibly come to a full and complete understanding of my unique interior design needs.”
“Ah.” Zoe swallowed her dismay. She had a hunch that Tabitha’s seminars were not cheap.
“Do you have any problem with that, dear?”
Zoe managed a weak smile. “No, not at all. Sounds like a terrific idea.”
“Wonderful. I’ll look for you at one of my sessions sometime in the next couple of weeks.” Tabitha rose from her chair and dropped a sheet of paper on the desk. “Here’s a time and fee schedule for you.” She wafted toward the door. “Peace to you, dear.”
“Peace.”
Zoe glanced down at the meditation schedule. She had guessed right. The seminars were pricey. She drummed her fingers on the desk for a while. Then she picked up the phone and punched in Ethan’s number.
“Truax Investigations.”
“Tabitha Pine just left. She made it clear that I don’t stand a chance at her project unless I attend some of her meditation seminars. They’re expensive but I’ve got a feeling that Lindsey Voyle will probably sign up for a full course as soon as she finds out it’s the ticket to the job.”
“The cost of doing business,” Ethan said philosophically. “Don’t expect any sympathy from me. Bonnie just called. She wants Truax Investigations to give the Whispering Springs Historical Society a freebie.”
“What kind of freebie?”
“I don’t know yet. I have an appointment with the mayor in the morning. Guess I’ll find out then.”
“Not to change the subject, but I had another confrontation with Pixie Ears this morning. She’s threatening to increase our rent on the grounds that there are now two of us living in the apartment.”
“You can handle her.”
“Easy for you to say.”
8
The searcher stood in middle of the small office and tried to fight off the brainstorm. Not another one. Not so soon.
Got to stay in control. Can’t lose it. Not here. The guard might notice the unlocked door. He’ll check to see if there are signs of an intruder. Can’t get caught.
But the familiar aura of impending night closed in with the fury of a thunderstorm. A split second later everything went dark. The searcher collapsed to the floor, brain filling up with static.
When it ended, the searcher was exhausted. It was always this way after the storms.
A glance at the small clock on the desk showed that only a couple of minutes had passed. There was still time.
The searcher rose and moved toward the filing cabinet. Something crunched underfoot.
Alarmed by the loud sound in the too-quiet space, the searcher aimed the small flashlight down toward the floor and saw a broken pen. It was a silly-looking object decorated with a tiny figure of Elvis. Cheap and tacky. Not an expensive fountain pen that would be missed.
Relieved, the searcher scooped up the broken pen and shoved the pieces into a pocket.
Got to stay focused. Came here for a reason. Got to concentrate.
9
Ethan folded his hands on the top of his desk and gave the mayor what he hoped was a regretful but firm smile. “It’s true that solving historical murder cases is a hobby of mine, Mrs. Santana. But I’m afraid I can only do that kind of work when I’m between cases. At the moment I’m a little busy.”
Paloma Santana’s elegant dark brows rose slightly. “Bonnie explained that to me but she implied that you would make an exception in this situation.”
Ethan gave his sister-in-law, sitting in the second client chair, a brief glance. “She did, huh?”
He was pretty sure he knew what Bonnie was thinking. Most of the time they communicated fairly well.
He had liked Bonnie from the moment his brother had introduced her as his fiancée. She had seemed perfect for him and it was clear that she loved Drew with all her heart.
But in the wake of Drew’s death, Ethan and Bonnie had forged an even stronger bond. United by the mutual goal of looking after Drew’s young sons, they had fashioned an unshakable alliance that resembled a brother-sister relationship. As was the case in such relationships, Ethan occasionally got annoyed with his “sister.”
Bonnie leaned forward, her attractive features fixed in a cajoling expression. “Ethan, solving this old murder would make a huge contribution to the festivities that are planned for the opening of the Kirwan House. The Historical Society has been working on the project for over two years. It’s going to be a great tourist attraction.”
He could see that it was important to her that he take on the project. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. After all, they were both trying to put down roots in Whispering Springs.
He turned back to Paloma. The mayor was in her early forties. She was a striking woman with dark brown eyes and an elegant profile. Her camel-colored trousers and cream silk blouse looked sophisticated and expensive.
Bonnie had given him a little background the day before when she had phoned, bubbling with enthusiasm, to tell him that she wanted him to meet with the mayor. The editorial staff at the Whispering Springs Herald considered Paloma Santana to be the most effective mayor in recent years. Her family had a long history in the Whispering Springs area. Paloma was married to the successful developer of the Desert View Country Club, and the couple moved in the community’s highest social circles.
In short, Paloma Santana was an excellent business contact.
“Tell me about the Kirwan case,” he said.
Paloma sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. “Walter Kirwan was a brilli
ant, eccentric, highly respected author who lived and wrote here in Whispering Springs some sixty years ago. Does the title A Long, Cold Summer ring any bells?”
He rummaged around among the handful of memories he retained from his short and extremely limited experience with higher education and found one that was relevant.
“College,” he said. “Freshman English. We’re talking about that Walter Kirwan?”
“Yes. As Bonnie told you, the Historical Society has just finished restoring his house. Kirwan’s death was big news in literary circles at the time and has since become something of a legend among Kirwan scholars.”
“You say he was murdered?”
“That’s part of the mystery. No one is quite sure what happened. According to the newspaper accounts, Kirwan and his housekeeper, a woman named Maria Torres, were alone together on the night of his death. Maria later told the authorities that everything was normal and routine that evening. After dinner, Kirwan retired to his study to work on a manuscript. Maria went to bed. She found his body in the study the next morning. He was slumped in his chair.”
“Cause of death?”
“It was ruled a heart attack. But the rumors that the housekeeper had poisoned Kirwan started almost immediately. They have persisted to this day. Most history buffs and Kirwan scholars assume that she was the killer.”
The familiar curiosity started to uncoil deep in his gut. Reluctantly he reached for a notepad and picked up a pen. “Why was she a suspect?”
“Kirwan had made a will.” Paloma’s elegant jaw tensed slightly. “In it he left the house to Maria.”
“So getting her hands on the house was supposedly the motive?”
“Yes. She was a poor woman from a hardworking family that was barely getting by. There is no doubt but that the house would have been a godsend to the Torres family.”
Something in her voice made Ethan look up from his notes. “Let me guess. She didn’t get it, right?”
“Right,” Paloma replied. “Kirwan’s Boston relatives had no intention of allowing his housekeeper to inherit the property. They brought their lawyers out to Arizona and had no problem breaking the will.”
Ethan contemplated that for a few seconds.
“How is Maria supposed to have murdered Kirwan?” he asked.
“They say she poisoned him with some substance that made it appear that he’d suffered a heart attack.”
“Huh.” Slowly he put down his pen. “I have to tell you that, unless you want to go to the trouble and expense of exhuming the body and running some tests, I doubt that it will be possible to discover the truth. Even if you did dig up the body, there’s only a very slim chance that you could identify the poison at this late date.”
“Exhumation is not an option,” Paloma said. “Kirwan’s relatives took the body back to Boston. Their descendants have no reason to cooperate with us.”
“I’ve got to be honest with you. I don’t think there’s anything I can do that will give you the decisive answer you want,” Ethan said.
“There’s more to this than the question of whether or not Kirwan was murdered,” Bonnie put in quickly. “There’s a missing manuscript. It disappeared the same night that Kirwan died, and everyone involved at the time was sure that there was a connection.”
Ethan propped his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers. “This would be the manuscript that Kirwan evidently took into his study to read that night?”
“Yes.” Paloma was very intent. “The same people who say that Maria Torres poisoned Walter Kirwan also insist that she stole the manuscript.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Walter Kirwan was already a celebrated author at the time of his death. It had been five years since he’d published a book. His last manuscript would have been worth a great deal to the Kirwan estate. Maria Torres had to know that.”
“Any theories on what happened to the manuscript?” Ethan asked.
“The assumption is that it disappeared into the collectors’ market, but no trace of it has ever been found.”
Ethan tapped his fingers together twice. “Anyone ever ask Maria about the murder and the missing manuscript?”
“Of course.” Paloma shrugged. “She died two years ago at the age of eighty-nine, and right up until the end collectors and academics routinely contacted her to ask her about the last Walter Kirwan manuscript.”
“What did she tell them?”
“The same thing she told her family and everyone else who asked about it. That Kirwan had been very dissatisfied with the manuscript, just as he had been with an earlier project. She said that he was morose and grim that evening. She claimed that the last thing he said to her before he closed the door of his study was that he intended to feed the manuscript to the fireplace, just as he had the other one.”
Ethan frowned. “He told her that he was going to burn it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that would explain the missing manuscript,” he pointed out gently.
“Not quite,” Paloma said. “It was midsummer, a very warm night. Maria told her family later that the hearth was clean the next morning. There was no evidence that Kirwan had lit a fire.”
“Huh.”
Bonnie nodded knowingly. “There are a couple of other details about this case that you might find interesting. I did a little preliminary research in the library’s collection of the back issues of the Whispering Springs Herald. Turns out that according to Maria, the door to Kirwan’s study was still locked from the inside the next morning. She had to get the key to open it.”
“What’s the other detail?”
“Walter Kirwan had a visitor on the day of his death. His name was George Exford. According to Maria, the two men quarreled violently over whether or not the manuscript was ready for publication. Exford left in a furious temper because Kirwan had refused to let him take the book with him.”
“Who was Exford?”
“Kirwan’s literary agent. He had a vested interest in seeing to it that the manuscript was handed over to the publisher. There was a fair amount of money at stake.”
“Huh,” Ethan said again.
Paloma glanced at Bonnie.
“Don’t worry,” Bonnie said. “He always says that when he’s getting interested in an old case.”
Ethan ignored her. He met Paloma’s eyes. “I get the feeling there’s something personal here, Mrs. Santana. What makes you think Maria Torres was telling the truth?”
“She was my grandmother,” Paloma said coolly. “On behalf of the entire family, I would like to see her name cleared.”
10
They sat together at one of the outdoor cafes in Fountain Square. Arcadia ordered espresso. Zoe chose hot tea. It was midafternoon and the day had warmed up nicely. That morning it had been chilly, but Zoe had lathered on the sunscreen as usual. She had lived in Whispering Springs long enough to have developed a good deal of respect for the intensity of the desert light.
Zoe had always been intrigued and attracted by contrasts and intense colors, but she had never expected to find so many of both here in this starkly etched land. The Sonoran desert was a study in opposites and ever-changing hues. A landscape that at first glance looked as if it could not possibly sustain life had proved to be stunningly rich in both flora and fauna.
And the light was incredible. It dazzled the eye and created seductive shadows. The glorious yellows, purples and golds of a morning sunrise gave way to the unrelenting glare of the sun at high noon and then dissolved into the softest shades of twilight. The transition from the heat of late afternoon to the cool, silken air of the evening never ceased to fascinate her photographer’s eye.
She took a sip of her tea, put down the cup and looked at Arcadia. “You want to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Arcadia, this is me, Zoe, remember? I’m the one who busted out of Xanadu with you.” Xanadu was the private code word they shared for Candle L
ake Manor. Somehow the name seemed to describe the bizarre reality of the place.
“It’s okay, Zoe, really.”
Zoe put up a hand. “Stop right there. I’m your best friend, with the possible exception of Harry, and he’s not here right now. I’m telling you that I know there’s something wrong.”
Arcadia did a delicate grimace. “I was having a little trouble sleeping earlier this week. I felt sort of edgy and restless. But I’m all right now.”
What was it about November this year? Zoe wondered. It seemed like most of the gang were having problems this month. Bonnie and the boys and Ethan were dealing with the anniversary of Drew Truax’s death, she was brooding about the future of her marriage and worrying about Ethan’s mood swings and now her best friend was on edge for some reason.
Arcadia picked up her tiny espresso cup with both hands. Her long nails, tinted to match her short, platinum hair, glinted a little in the light. Only someone who had known her for a while would have detected the signs of strain, Zoe thought. Arcadia was very good at concealing her emotions.
Zoe assumed that Arcadia was in her early forties, but she possessed the timeless elegance of a 1930s film star. What’s more, she radiated the air of aloof, world-weary sophistication that went with the image. Today she was dressed in her signature icy pastels. Tall and willowy, she wore aqua silk trousers and a white silk tunic with languid, Greta Garbo–style grace.
Zoe had a napkin on her lap but Arcadia had not bothered with one. She drank her espresso and nibbled on a croissant with a breathtaking lack of concern for drips or crumbs. Food did not accidentally spill or splash onto Arcadia’s expensive clothes.
“Do you want to tell me what’s keeping you awake?” Zoe said. “I know it isn’t because you’re having great sex. Harry is still out of town.”
“I’m starting to think that may be the problem,” Arcadia said very seriously.
“Lack of hot sex?”
“No, Harry being out of town.”
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