Cold Blood (12 page)

“Honey, you should get that fixed, you’d be real lovely. What was your first name?”

“Lorraine.”

“Nice to talk with you, Lorraine.”

Rosie was squeezing past her when the woman leaned forward again.

“Rosie. Your name is Rosie, and your spirit is kind. You take care now, honey.”

The chain was replaced, the bolts banged across. For someone who was about to go out, it was weird that she should lock herself in. Was she

LVMDA LA PLAIMTE

expecting someone or simply lying? Lorraine suspected the latter; Juda Salina was not about to go out.

Lorraine aJfff Rosie had to wait fifteen minutes in the garage before a resident came down and used the special code to open the security gates. They sat discussing Juda and, as Bill Rooney had done before them, came to the conclusion she was one big fake, able to make a lot of money from people as desperate as Elizabeth Caley. Her computer-printed advertisement was crude and unprofessional, stating how many people had been saved by Juda Salina predictions, and how many times. She also listed a number of police cases she had assisted in. It was all rubbish; saying she felt a presence and that Anna Louise Caley was alive only meant she could keep asking for more money from Mrs. Caley.

Rosie read the printout, and frowned as she turned the pages.

“I hope she’s right.”

“About what? Your sweet soul?”

“No, that the little girl is alive. I hope she is.”

Lorraine was now more convinced the girl was dead, but she decided that Rooney should at least check out the socalled police investigations listed in the printout and Salina’s part in them. She had gained only one thing of interest: Robert Caley did not like Juda Salina. She respected him for that.

Juda sat wondering whether or not she should call Mrs. Caley. She didn’t like the fact that yet another private investigBbr was questioning her, and supposedly with Mrs. Caley’s permission. InWact, it annoyed her that she had been told by some faceless employee of Robert Caley’s that she was no longer allowed to visit his wife and that there would be no further payments. She had made a lot of money out of their misery, even a trip back home. But this time she was worried.

She went over in her mind everything Lorraine had said. The woman hadn’t asked anything new, so what was it? The scar? She had a feeling that it had been inflicted by a man, but the message had been very hazy. She sighed, feeling tired, unsure whether or not to put herself through it, and without being paid. But even as she fought against doing it, she got up, drew the dark crimson curtains and turned off the overhead lights so the small room was in virtual darkness. She sat down again. An onlooker would have thought she was nodding off to sleep, her eyes drooping like those of someone heavy with exhaustion, unable to keep awake. She moaned softly, as though with sexual gratification, and sank deeper into the chair. Her big bosom rose and fell as she took slow, deep breaths.

“Yes, oh yes, yes,”

she whispered, and her tiny, delicate hands clung to the carved arm of her uncomfortable chair. She continued to take deep labored breaths, her bosom heaving, her head beginning to feel light as she began to go slowly into a trance. The darkness seeped into Juda’s consciousness. Nothing for a while, then it started to happen, just as it had when she had been with Elizabeth Caley. First came the distorted sounds of music, then of a street. She couldn’t grasp the area, it was happening too quickly and she couldn’t control it, but she felt the place was familiar. Exactly as it had played out before, something began to terrify her, and this time she felt it even more strongly. She began to gasp, her hands clawing at the chair; there was a pain in the center of her chest, as if a weight were pressing down, squeezing the air from her lungs. She began to flap her hands; someone or something was astride her, a man, it was a man and he was taking out a knife. She couldn’t see his face, just knew he was going to slice her throat.

Her own scream cut through the dark void of panic, and she lurched forward, coming to fast, fazed for only a few moments before she realized she was safe in her own apartment. The sweat trickled down her cheeks and she involuntarily patted her neck and chest, frightened by the stillawful feeling of choking, of someone squeezing the life out of her. But it wasn’t her, she knew that, it wasn’t Juda Salina being murdered, it was someone with a name beginning with the letter L.

The initial L: did it stand for Lorraine Page? She was tensing up, remembering what she had just put herself through, and for a second time. Juda had had a similarly jumbled message when she’d gone into the trance at Mrs. Caley’s, someone’s name beginning with the letter L. She knew she had frightened Elizabeth Caley, but she didn’t know what it had meant. Often she didn’t, the messages for one client could get confused with another’s, bvit this one had been particularly strong. She’d presumed then that the letter L was for Louise, Anna Louise, because she had had an overpowering feeling of imminent danger, and of death. She had lied to Mrs. Caley, said the powers had been strong and that her daughter was alive, but she had felt death very close.

Juda tried to recall the exact day she visited Mrs. Caley. She found the entry in her diary and turned over the page to the next day. She read the scrawled message from Robert Caley’s secretary that she was not to see his wife again. They were the only notes in the diary for that day. Juda drummed the blank pages with her painted fingernails, made a decision and dialed the Caley residence. Phyllis answered.

“Phyllis, this is Juda-“

“You must not call here againI thought Mr. Caley had made that clear to you. He will not allow you to speak to Elizabeth again.”

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“I know. It was you I wanted to talk to.”

Phyllis was almost whispering.

“If it’s about any further payments, I have been inst^rcted by Mr. Caley that”

“It isn’t, I just need to know something. I’ve had a visit from a woman working for a private investigation agency.”

“You mean Mrs. Page.”

“Yeah, Lorraine Page, isn’t it?”

“Yes, she’s been brought in.”

“What day did you hire her?”

“The same day you last came to see Mrs. Caley. You know she was very distressed after you left and … hello?”

Juda was silent.

Phyllis sounded worried.

“Hello? Are you still there? Is something wrong, has Mrs. Page said something?”

“No, no, I just needed to clear up my diary entries. Thank you, Phyllis, and please tell Elizabeth I am thinking of her and keeping Anna Louise’s presence in my mind, and I’ll wait for her to contact me. ‘Bye now.”

Juda replaced the phone before Phyllis could ask anything else. She could tell herself it was coincidence, but she knew it wasn’t. She sensed much more strongly than she would ever admit that Anna Louise Caley had been dead a long timeshe knew that. What she hadn’t been able to make sense of until now was that on Tuesday night the message she’d received was so strong it had made her physically sick. A connection to the letter L had come up and burned in her brairBsurrounded by fire and imminent danger. Now she was sure the L was ror Lorraine Page, and there was a lot more than imminent danger … she was sure the woman was going to die, and in the same way as she had seen so clearly in her second trance stateLorraine was going to get her throat cut.

Lorraine had borrowed Rosie’s heated rollers to style her hair. She wore a cream silk blouse, a tight, straight skirt with a slit down one side and highheeled shoes. She eased a dark blue linen jacket around her shoulders and stepped back to admire the effect.

Rosie stood in the kitchen, spooning up a vast bowl of cereal.

“I dunno how you manage to get bargain of the month at every yard salenothin’ ever fits me. Very smart.”

“Thank you, I need to feel good to take on Elizabeth Caley.”

“Mm,”

Rosie muttered, milk dribbling down her chin.

“You gonna take up his offer? Be nice to travel in style, private jet.”

Lorraine checked her purse and slim briefcase/Tm not ready to leave LA yet, so we’ll see. In the meantime, there’s a list of things for you to be doing: arrange tickets, hotels and start packing. Call me if you need me on the cell phone, maybe early afternoon, and see what Rooney and this hop-along guy come up with.”

“Okay.”

Rosie looked down the neatly written list.

Shortly after Lorraine drove off down the road, Rooney screeched to a halt outside the apartment. He tooted the car horn; he’d started giving Rosie a ride into the office if he was passing. She thudded down the wooden steps and crossed over to his car as he opened the passenger door.

“You just missed Veronica Lake, she’s gone to the Caleys’. But we have a list of orders and she wanted to know how you got on with Nick Bartello.”

Rooney pushed his shades up his shiny nose.

“I got one bitch of a hangover, but I’d bet any money he’s got an even worse one.”

Rosie looked at him more closely.

“Jesus, where in hell did you get those shades?”

“Found ‘em in a drawerI think they were my wife’s, why?”

Rosie grinned.

“Well, I just didn’t reckon you’d be the kind of guy to wear pink-framed shades, but they suit you, match your coloring, sorta flushed.”

Rooney drove on, his gut pressed against the steering wheel.

“Well, when I’m through with ‘em you can have them. They’ll match whatever color you describe your hair.”

“Aw, shut up, you, it’s the perm. I’m a natural redhead and if you want I can prove it.”

“God forbid, I couldn’t take that even without a hangover!”

Lorraine and the butler had another formal bowing session before he led her toward the drawing room.

“I won’t be kept waiting again, will I?”

she asked. He actually half smiled.

“Mrs. Caley is expecting you, Mrs. Page.”

At that moment Phyllis appeared and gestured for Lorraine to follow her up the wide staircase.

“Please bring Mrs. Caley’s breakfast, and for you, Mrs. Page?”

“Oh, I’d like a coffee, black with honey if you have it, thank you.”

He gave a curt nod and departed toward the kitchen corridor as Lorraine continued up the stairs.

“What’s his name again?”

“Peters, Reginald Peters.”

Phyllis tapped on the double doors on the first landing. “/^i n

L>ome in.

Phyllis stepped back and ushered Lorraine into Elizabeth Caley’s drawing room,-almost bumping into her as she stopped dead in her tracks. The drawing room was a profusion of perfumed flowers in vast displays on almost every available surface, and even though the shutters were drawn over the open windows, the pale lemon walls, drapes and carpet seemed to blend into each other as if the room were ablaze with sunlight. White muslin curtains billowed from brass curtain rods in contrast to the stillness of the designer-draped silk curtains with their golden fringes and tiebacks.

Elizabeth Caley was reclining on a white shot-silk chaise longue, wearing a flowing kimono of dark green and yellow printed flowers. Her thick pitch-black hair was braided in a long plait down her back and a tight white bandanna was wrapped around her head. She was creaming her delicate hands and smiled warmly at Lorraine.

“Come in, darling. Please excuse me for not shaking hands, but I have just had a manicure and the girl never uses enough moisturizer. Sit down.”

Lorraine looked around. There were scatter pillows in profusion on every lemon shot-silk chair, and before she could decide which one to sit on, Phyllis made the choice for her, drawing forward a spindle-legged armchair.

“Thank you, Phyllis dear. Is Peters bringing refreshments?”

“Yes.”

“Good, then you may leave us.”

Phyllis crept out, and Lorraine sat down, Whipping her briefcase and taking out her notebook.

“Have you done something different to your hair?”

Lorraine smiled.

“No, just washed it.”

“You do it yourself?”

“Yes. Thank you for seeing me.”

Peters entered, wheeling in a gilt trolley, which held coffee, croissants, tea and ice water. He eased the trolley over to Mrs. Caley, passed her a white, stiffly laundered napkin and poured a greenish-looking tea. The china was fine porcelain. He poured black coffee and indicated a silver dish with honey for Lorraine.

Mrs. Caley eased herself to a sitting position and wafted her hand.

“Thank you, thank you, I’ll ring if we need anything else.”

“Very good, Mrs. Caley.”

He performed his backward half-bow out of the room and closed the doors silently behind him.

“Would you care for a croissant?”

“No, thank you.” Lorraine spooned in the honey, careful not to let any drops fall on the white tray cloth. Elizabeth Caley picked up silver tongs and placed a warmed croissant on a plate, then some jam from a silver pot. Lorraine noticed that her smooth hands with their long, talonlike red nails were shaking, and she had to use both hands to sip from her delicate teacup.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t see you yesterday, but I am sure Phyllis made my apologies.”

“She did.”

“I don’t know what I would do without Phyllis. That is a very pretty blouse.”

“Thank you.”

Lorraine balanced her cup and saucer on the arm of her chair as she eased her notebook onto her lap.

“I am sorry if I ask you questions that must have been put to you many times, but it is important. I will try not to take up too much of your time, as it must be distressing to …”

Elizabeth Caley nodded. She resembled Merle Oberon, with the same high forehead, enhanced now by the bandanna, and flawless skin. Her makeup, like everything else about her, was immaculate, her lips lightly outlined in a dark fuchsia. Whether or not her beauty had by now been assisted by surgery was immaterial; even at this close proximity her face appeared unlined. In comparison, Lorraine felt jaded, as any woman would. Elizabeth Caley had a fragility and femininity that in this day and age were ridiculed by feminists because, perfect creature as she was, she belonged to a different era. She would not dream of opening a door for herselfthis was a woman used to having men break their necks to get to the door first.