Silent Witness (12 page)

Still eyeing the bill, she was working her lips, rolling them under. This, he knew, meant that Maria was thinking, laboriously forming a plan. Finally: “How about if Al bring my sister here? She stay with me, tonight. Watch TV.”

Quickly, he shook his head. “No, I—I don’t want to do that, Maria. We’ve talked about that, your sister staying with you. It wouldn’t work. But here—” He extended the bill, waited for her to take it. Then: “You know that woman who was just here? Just now? With the red car?”

Maria lowered the shopping bag to the porch, carefully tucked the money in her purse before she nodded.
“Sí.
Red. Just left?”

“Yes.” He nodded again. “She’s a—she’s no good—no good for John. You understand?”

“No good.
Sí.”
She nodded.

“If she ever comes back, don’t let her in. Don’t let her talk to John. It’s important. It’s very important.”

“The
policía?
The sheriff? I call the sheriff, if she come?” As she said it, she frowned. Wetbacks avoided the law, it was an instinct.

Hastily, he raised a hand. “No—no, not the sheriff. I—just tell her to leave, that’s all. Lock the door, if necessary. Then find me, tell me. But no police.”

“Yes.
Sí.”

“Okay, that’s settled, then.” He moved quickly around her, went to the small study off the living room, picked up the phone, punched out Theo’s number. In San Francisco, the line was ringing. On the fifth ring, her answering machine began. He broke the connection, dialed the San Rafael number. Had she gotten a machine, at that number? They’d only rented the place a month ago. She was still buying furniture, still buying—

“Yes …” It was a lingering, languid monosyllable. Had she been drinking? Snorting? Was she alone? It’s me.

“Ah—” She was smiling as she said it, he was sure of it. That slow, provocative smile.

“I’m coming over. There’s something—” He broke off. Then: “We need to talk.”

“I’ve got to shop, pick up a few things. If I’m not here, I’ll be back soon. Let yourself in, have a drink. After all—” He could visualize her smile, twisting into a quirky challenge: the female, diddling the male. “After all, it’s a love nest, isn’t it?”

M
OVING CAUTIOUSLY FROM ONE
tree to another, carefully planting his feet on the uneven ground, crouched low, cowboys and Indians, Bernhardt moved slowly up the gentle rise. From the inside of the house, could Price see him? Yes. It was axiomatic. If he could see the house, then someone in the house, looking out, could see him, simple geometry. From where he now stood, crouched, Bernhardt could see two sides of the house and the garage, plus the graveled driveway that led through a fringe of trees to the county road. Bernhardt’s car was parked on the county road, about a quarter mile to the north. The car, the house, and his position made a rough equilateral triangle. If Price should spot him, therefore, and get his shotgun and come running, Bernhardt could make it to his car in time, allowing enough margin to negotiate the barbed wire fence that bordered the road. But if he continued toward the crest of the rise for a better view, the geometry changed, working against him. Therefore, he—

A figure appeared from behind the angle of the house, walking toward the three-car garage. It was Price, head down, striding purposefully. Leaving.

Bernhardt turned in the direction of his car. Time and distance were the problems now, no longer concealment. The geometry was changing against him. Long before he could climb over the fence and get to his car, Price would be in his car, under way. If he turned left at the county road, Price would see Bernhardt’s car, parked on the shoulder. If he turned right—south—he would be long gone before Bernhardt could reach his car.

Concealment forgotten, Bernhardt broke into a trot, dodging trees and fallen logs, crashing through brambles. Never had he felt more ineffectual: the city boy, the innocent abroad. Already, he’d torn his jacket. Would Janice offer to pay? Would he dare to ask?

“F
IRST THERE WAS THAT
private detective,” Price said. “And now Janice. For all we know, Fowler’ll be next, poking around.” He shook his head, clenched his fist, lightly struck the arm of the sofa. The sofa had just been delivered yesterday, she’d said. The cost, fifteen hundred dollars. How long could he keep siphoning money from the winery’s receipts, to keep all of it going? The cars, the airplane, payrolls, the servants, now the hideaway apartment. All of it negative cash flow, covered by borrowing against his inheritance. How long would the creditors go along? When would someone discover that rental on this apartment was buried in the winery’s expense items as “rent on business property”? The winery had never made money. Without income from Connie’s investments, all those dividends, all that accrued interest, it could all come apart. Soon. Very soon.

“What Janice really wants,” he said, “is to see John. But the question is, why?”

Theo sat at the other end of the sofa, her back against the arm, her legs drawn up, facing him. At her crotch, skintight blue jeans revealed her cleft. Her expression was calm. As always, calm: the Nordic goddess of power, a Valkyrie. Never had she seemed more desirable—yet more remote. Theo was thinking. Calculating. Planning.

“From what you’ve been saying,” she said finally, “it sounds like the conversation blew up too soon. You should’ve let her talk. Maybe she’d’ve told you whether she’d hired the detective—whether she intended to talk to the sheriff. We’d know where we stand. This way—” She shook her head, shrugged. As her head moved, her thick, tawny hair came sinuously alive. God, how he craved that hair lying across the bare flesh of his chest. He needed that feeling. It had only been three months since they’d first met. But the touch of her—the sensations she generated—were never far from the core of his thoughts. He was addicted.

“Christ, I
did
let her talk. I couldn’t shut her up. And I’ll tell you, she’s not about to slink back to Santa Barbara. No way. The lady is out to get me.”

Holding her pose, she made no response. In the silence, each sitting at opposite ends of the long sofa—the fifteen-hundred-dollar sofa—they stared silently at each other. He couldn’t read her face. Had he ever been able to do it? Did he ever know what Theo was thinking? Was that part of the attraction—the obsession? In three months—three erotic months—they’d done it all, woman to man and man to woman. Everything. But the woman he faced now was a stranger. An inscrutable, desirable stranger.

Now, speaking slowly, her eyes shifting beyond him, plainly articulating the thoughts as they came to her, she said, “It sounds like she misses John. It sounds genuine. And it could be—” As the thoughts outdistanced the words, she broke off. Then: “It could be that you’re worrying too much. You’re assuming the worst, where John’s concerned. You’re assuming he was awake, and heard it all. Everything. But you never’ve talked to John about what he heard—or saw.”

“But—”

“Wait.” She raised an abrupt hand. Repeating: “Wait.” It was a short, harsh monosyllable. Her eyes were hard, her mouth set. She let a beat pass before she began speaking crisply, decisively. Her eyes had come alive now, locked with his, compelling his close attention. “What we could be doing,” she said, “is assuming the worst. Erroneously assuming the worst. We’re assuming that John knows what happened—or suspects, anyhow. And we’re assuming that Janice wants to talk to him because she’s suspicious. But that could be wrong. It could be completely wrong. So why don’t we assume the best, instead of the worst? Why don’t we assume that John didn’t hear or see a thing? And why don’t we assume that all Janice wants to do is spend some time with John? Why don’t we—”

“That could’ve been true, at first. But today, she sure as hell—”

“Wait.
Let me
finish.”
Her voice rose, her eyes snapped. Was it anger? It was the first time he’d seen her eyes like this, the first time he’d heard this edge to her voice. In response, he shrugged, spread his hands, looked away. He’d let her have her way. Then he’d speak. Didn’t she know that they
had
to assume the worst? Didn’t she realize that—

“What about this—” Now she spoke calmly, earnestly. Her eyes, too, were earnest. Intense, but earnest. “What if you take John away for a few months? What if the two of you went to Europe, traveling around? No one would really know where you were—no one but me. Before you go, you call Janice. You apologize. You say she has to realize how disturbed you’ve been, these last couple of months. And John, too, of course. Emphasize that you’ve done it all for John. Then you tell her that when you get back from Europe she’s welcome to have John for as long as she wants. In fact, you’ll say, you like traveling so much that you’ve decided to live in Europe for a while. Spain, maybe in a small village. You’ll say that …”

As she continued to speak, his thoughts turned inward, overlaying her voice. She was right. God, she was right. He would stay in Europe, traveling, out of touch. Then he’d come back to San Francisco. No, he’d go first to Los Angeles, then up to Santa Barbara. He’d give John to Janice—
give
him to her. Then he’d go to San Francisco, and pick up the inheritance check from his lawyer. The winery, he’d leave for the creditors. The townhouse, one-third his, one-third John’s, he’d instruct his lawyer to sell, and send the check to him.

Then, back in Europe, he would send for Theo. Janice and John would live happily ever after.

Theo was no longer speaking. She was looking at him. Watching. Waiting.

“I wonder …” Suddenly he rose, walked to the view window, stood for a moment looking out at the Marin County vistas: Mount Tamalpais, shimmering in the afternoon heat. Because of the view, the rental was fifteen hundred, for a small three-room apartment. “I wonder, would it work?” Frowning, biting his lip, he turned to face her. Uncertainty clouded his eyes.

“Why wouldn’t it work?” As she spoke, she lowered her feet to the floor, and turned on the couch to face him. The urgency was gone from her voice now, the tension had gone out of her body. The message: having expressed her opinion she would abide by his decision. There was another message, too: a suggestion of sexual quickening.

“There’s the winery to run. And bills to pay,” he said.

“Couldn’t your lawyer handle that? What’ll it be, another three months, before the will’s probated?”

“Closer to four, I think. The whole process takes six months.”

“You could keep in contact with your lawyer through me.” As she spoke, she raised her arms over her head, stretched, then moved closer. Yes, her eyes were softening, the pattern of her movements invited his caress. Suddenly it suffused him: the aura of her, the promise of release, of abandon, of oblivion.

F
ROM THE BATHROOM SHE
heard the sound of the shower. Soon, she knew, he would begin to sing: big, booming, masculine songs. A rooster crowed after screwing a hen. Was that what Dennis thought he was doing: crowing after he’d screwed her, thrust into her, left her gasping, helpless, lying across the bed, her part of the barnyard?

How little he knew.

How little they all knew: men like Dennis, more vanity than cock. Pretty boys, posing. Thirty-dollar hairstyling, tight jeans, smooth talk, a knowing smile. Children. Vain, spoiled children, smiling for the camera. All his life, Dennis’s smile had been his fortune; he was a vain, indulged pretty boy. Somehow his parents had scraped together enough money to send him to UCLA—a business major, so-called. A fraternity boy, really, a party boy. Even then—especially then—Dennis’s face had been his fortune. He’d met Constance Hale at a frat party. On graduation day, they’d driven to Las Vegas, four of them, two couples, and gotten married. Constance Hale, worth millions—and millions. Constance Hale, hooked. A meal ticket for life.

Constance Hale, dead.

More than two months, dead.

But, still, a meal ticket, a passport to a lifetime’s riches.

Letting her eyes close, she allowed her thoughts to return to the night of June sixteenth. Because it was necessary, she knew, that she remember. Otherwise, in years to come, she’d be in trouble. Psychiatrists, she knew, “peeled the onion,” removing the outer layers of time, working back to the cause of it all: the single incident, the poisonous seed that lodged in the psyche, and began to fester.

And murder was the most poisonous seed of all.

It had been only the second time they’d made love at the winery. Earlier in the day, they’d been flying. She’d driven up from the city, and met him at Buck Field. With Connie out of town, in Disneyland, they hadn’t hesitated to spend the day together, flying. They’d first met at Buck Field, when she was taking flying lessons.

Had it only been three months, since they’d met?

In three months, a lifetime could change.

Three months … plus three seconds, on June sixteenth.

They’d flown up to Clear Lake, a beautiful flight through clear summer sky. They’d had lunch, rented bicycles, taken a swim. The weather had been perfect, not too hot, not too cold. They’d stayed at Clear Lake until just after six, leaving enough time to return to Buck before twilight. They’d intended to drive into San Francisco, to her place. But Dennis had an appointment the next morning with a lawyer representing a potential buyer for the winery, a possibility Dennis was secretly exploring. So they’d gone to the winery, the night of June sixteenth. They’d been careful not to—

Suddenly he was in the room. Showered, scented, smiling, hair carefully combed, his acceptably proportioned body posed for her approval. Pleased with himself. An hour ago, frightened, he was quaking. Now he was preening.

“You look very—” She hesitated. “Very self-satisfied.”

The smile widened. “So do you.” Appreciatively, he studied her. Beneath his eyes, also posing, she subtly moved her body, responding to his gaze as she might to his touch. Soon—very soon, perhaps—they would make love again. When the flesh was willing—and able.

But now she saw the shadow of fear return, clouding Dennis’s remarkably clear gray eyes. What would those eyes be capitalized at? she wondered. Athletes insured their arms, their legs, the muscles that let them make millions. What part had those eyes played in winning the hand of Connie Hale?