Silent Witness (2 page)

Friday night, Connie had been killed. Murdered.

Murdered …

The word had a leaden resonance, like a muffled bell tolling in the dark of night. There was a name for words that sounded like the things they described. Lessons from freshman English, long forgotten.

Ahead, the road forked: right for the terminal, left for the parking lot. She signaled for the right turn, took her foot from the accelerator. “Let the engine slow you down,” her father had said. “Save the brakes.” He’d only given her two driving lessons, before he died. But she still remembered the advice.

Murdered …

If she repeated it often enough, would the word lose its dreadful finality, its terrifying aura of infinite doom?

No. Never.

Only time could help. She was thirty-six years old; she was just beginning to realize that, yes, time was the only balm that eased the pain.

Ahead, two cars were stopped in front of the terminal, unloading passengers and baggage. One car was the standard Santa Barbara Mercedes. The terminal, too, was standard Santa Barbara: a cluster of low, mission-style white stucco buildings with vine-shaded patios and low, red-tiled roofs. She’d lived here all her life. Sometimes, seen through a certain unpredictable prism, Santa Barbara seemed too good to be true: too picturesque, too affluent, too removed from pain and poverty.

As they rolled to a stop, Dennis unbuckled his safety belt, swung the door open, put out his hand, for the keys. “I’ll get the bags. Sit tight.” Typically, his voice was clipped, flattened with bogus authority. Many men who lived off their wives acted like that, she’d discovered. Santa Barbara was loaded with men like Dennis Price. “Fortune hunters” was the archaic phrase.

She took the keys from the ignition, dropped them in his palm. Let him figure out which key opened the trunk. It was a small, petty barb, but gratifying. She knew he wouldn’t ask her which key fitted the trunk. Not Dennis. He’d try them all, before he’d ask.

She twisted in the driver’s seat to face John. In all the world, this was the only mortal left with whom she shared a blood kinship. John Hale Price, seven years old. He’d been in the house the night of the murder. He could have heard his mother screaming.

One week ago tonight, he could have heard her screaming.

He was looking at her with round, solemn eyes. What secrets lay locked in violent memory behind those soft brown eyes?

“John—” She reached out her hand, to touch his shoulder. Through the rear window she saw the trunk lid come up. Dennis had found the right key. “I want to see you soon, John. Later in the summer, before you start school, I want to see you. I’ll come up and get you. We can go to Disneyland again. Would you like that?”

The solemn eyes did not change. Had it been a mistake to mention Disneyland, where he’d just gone with his mother?

“Or we could—” The trunk lid slammed down. Only seconds remained. Life, she’d learned, was measured in seconds—seconds for a young mother to die, seconds for connections to be made, for love to find fragmented words: “We could go fishing, out in the ocean. We could—”

“Okay, John—” Through the open door on the passenger’s side, Price handed her the keys, then folded the front seat forward, for John to get out of the car. At the sound of his father’s voice, the boy’s eyes changed. Had he flinched?

“He can come with me,” she said quickly. “We can park the car while you check in.”

Decisively, Price shook his head. “No. He’s got a bag, he can carry it. Come on, John. Bring your bag. We don’t have much time.”

“You’ve got a half hour,” she said. “At least.” Price looked at her: a quick, hard glance. Then he turned to his son. “Come on, John. Please.” To Janice, the last word sounded like an exasperated afterthought. Plainly reluctant, the boy took hold of his bright red nylon satchel, lifted it, and climbed out of the car.

“We’ll see you inside, Janice,” Price said. “Thanks.” Abruptly, he closed the door, lifted his two suitcases and walked up the flagstone sidewalk to the terminal’s arbored entrance. Shoulders rounded, head bowed, John followed.

T
HE CHECK-IN LINE
was abnormally long, even for a Friday. With twenty minutes remaining before departure time, there were eight San Francisco-bound passengers standing in line ahead of Dennis and John. While she was still several paces from him, John turned toward her. He’d obviously been watching the entrance to the terminal, waiting for her.

Smiling, she spontaneously held out her hand to him. “Come on, John. I’ll buy you an ice-cream bar while your dad’s checking the suitcases.”

The boy stepped quickly toward her, his satchel on the floor, forgotten. But, just as quickly, Price frowned, dropped a hand to his son’s shoulder. “Let him stay here, Janice. He doesn’t need anything to eat after that lunch. Especially ice cream.”

S
TANDING ON THE LAWN
in front of the low adobe wall that bordered the tarmac, she watched the airplane’s door close, watched the motorized ramp move back. Should she wave? She always felt faintly foolish, waving at faces she could never recognize behind the airplane’s small windows. So she simply stood in the bright June sunshine as the 737’s engines started, rose to an ear-piercing whine as the airplane began to move slowly across the tarmac. Automatically, she glanced at her watch. Ten minutes until three, exactly the scheduled departure time.

In half an hour, she would be home—the home of her childhood.

She’d been six years old when Constance was born. Old enough to realize that the tiny baby lying beside her mother in the hospital bed had come from inside her mother’s body.

She’d been sixteen that Sunday afternoon when the sheriff’s car had pulled into their circular driveway. She’d been in her room upstairs, watching tennis on TV. She’d heard the car’s engine, and gone to the window and looked down. When she’d seen the light bar on the car’s roof, and the number, she’d experienced a momentary titillation, the involuntary response to the presence of the police. But the next moment she’d experienced the first small, sharp stab of fear. Had something happened to her parents? To Connie?

As she’d watched, the car’s rear door had swung open, and Connie had emerged. It was all right, then—it would be all right.

But then she realized that Connie was wrapped in a blanket. And, in that moment, she’d known. Her parents were dead. Connie was alive. But their parents were dead.

The 737 was at the far end of the airport. Soon, she knew, the airplane would turn onto the runway. Moments later it would begin its takeoff roll, blasting into the bright blue sky, bound for San Francisco.

Dennis and John had arrived yesterday, on the ten o’clock United flight from San Francisco. She’d debated hiring a car and driver to take the three of them from the airport to her home. But unless the car was a limo, the driver would have been party to their bereavement. And a limo would have been too ostentatious. So she’d picked them up in her bright red Toyota Celica, the best car she’d ever owned.

From the very first, as she and Dennis exchanged their ritual phrases of hushed condolence that instantly lost all meaning, she’d been aware of the underlying tension that inexplicably centered on John. Whenever she sought to draw John aside, even for a moment, Dennis intervened. At first she’d thought her brother-in-law was being overly protective, compensating, belatedly playing the role of father. But when she’d drawn Dennis aside, and suggested that perhaps John should stay at home with her rather than attend the funeral, Dennis’s reaction had been almost hostile. “Of course John’ll go to the funeral,” he’d said, loud enough for John to hear. “That’s why he’s here.” And last night, after the funeral, while John was preparing for bed, Dennis had been careful not to give her a chance to talk with John alone, even for a moment.

Why?

Was Dennis afraid?

Of what?

What could John tell her that Dennis was so determined she should not hear?

As she watched the 737 begin to move, gathering momentum as it hurtled down the runway, she was aware that, whatever the cost, these were questions that must be answered.

A
WARE THAT FATE COULD
hang on the moment, yet wryly amused by the melodramatic thought, Janice lifted the phone and punched out the number. After four rings, Paula’s recorded voice came on the line: “You’ve reached the residence of Paula Brett. I’m not able to answer the phone now, but if you’ll leave your name and number at the beep, I’ll get back to you. Thanks. And remember, wait for the beep.”

“Paula,” she said, “this is Janice. I’m sorry I haven’t called you since—”

“Janice.”
It was Paula’s voice, live.

“Ah—so you monitor your calls, one of those.”

“I was in the kitchen.” A moment’s hesitation, a drop in the timbre of the other woman’s voice, registering compassion: “How are you, Janice? I’ve thought about you every day since the funeral. But somehow—” Another moment of hesitation, as Paula searched for the phrase. “Somehow it—it’s hard to know when to call and when not to call. If that makes sense.”

“It makes perfect sense, Paula.”

“So—” Another hesitant beat. “So how
are
you?”

She drew a long, ragged breath. “I miss her. I miss her a lot. But—” She was aware that in the empty room, in the empty house, she was shrugging. There was no one to see, but she was shrugging. Why? “But I’m taking it one day at a time. So far, it’s working.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“As a matter of fact,” she said, “there is. That’s why I called.”

The other woman’s response was prompt and fulsome: “Whatever it is, you’ve got it.”

“Are—” Her voice caught. She’d known Paula Brett since childhood. In all her life, she’d never had a better, more generous friend. Irrationally, the thought threatened to bring tears.

“Are you still seeing the man you told me about—the private detective who’s also an actor?”

“And a director, too. And a playwright.”

“I don’t have to ask whether you’re still seeing him. I can hear it in your voice.”

“No …” It was a half-shy response. “No, you don’t have to ask.” Janice could visualize Paula as she said it: the perceptive warmth of the dark eyes, the pensive mouth up-curved in a very private smile. It would be a smile that, to a friend’s eye, revealed a latent vulnerability. For ten years, at least, Paula had been trapped in a bad marriage to a cruel, narcissistic screenwriter, a sadistic predator who had systematically preyed on her sense of self-worth.

“I’m envious. God knows, you’re entitled. But I’m still envious.”

“Nothing’s—settled. We’re just—” She was uncertain how to finish it.

Janice let a beat pass, to change the mood. Then: “Listen, Paula, is he—what’s his name?”

“Alan. It’s Alan Bernhardt.”

“Is he a good private detective?”

As if she’d divined the reason for the question, and was carefully considering, the other woman paused thoughtfully before she said, “I think he is. If I had a problem, I’d hire him.” Another pause. Then: “Have you got a problem, Janice?”

“It’s about Connie—about the way she died. I’ve got to talk to someone about it.”

“Alan?”

“Yes, Alan. I’m sure. Almost sure, anyhow.”

“Shall I tell him? Or would you rather—?”

“I think I’m going to come up there, and stay for a few days.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow, probably. Or the day after. Will you be in town?”

“Of course. I’ll pick you up at the airport. Have you got a flight? I can put you up on the couch, that’s the best I can do.”

“No. I’ll find a hotel. And I think I’ll drive up. I’ll call you back, when I’ve figured it out. Can you call Alan, in the meantime?”

“No need. He’s coming over for dinner.”

“I’m glad, Paula. I’m very glad.”

“Thank you, Janice. I’m glad, too.”

“I
’LL HAVE THE KUNG
Pao Chicken,” Janice said. “And rice. And we’ll start with the shark fin soup.”

The waitress nodded, wrote the order in Chinese characters on her order pad, and turned to Paula Brett. Sipping tea from a porcelain cup, Janice watched Paula frown at the enormous red menu with its two golden tassels. Even when they were little girls, and had ridden their bikes to McDonald’s during the long vacation days of summer, Paula had always been slow deciding what to order.

How reassuring it was to be with someone whose presence brought back those youthful memories. Their fathers had been classmates at Yale, lifetime friends. Paula’s father had taken a Ph.D. and gone on to teach at UCLA, a professor of sociology. Her own father had gone into banking, then into finance, finally founding his own venture capital business, based in Los Angeles. He’d specialized in electronics, and had prospered: a millionaire at thirty, a multimillionaire ten years later. The family had moved to Santa Barbara soon after Connie was born, when Janice was six, and just beginning first grade. The Bretts always spent a week or two each summer with them, either in Santa Barbara, sailing and swimming, or at the Hales’ ranch in the San Ysidro Mountains behind Santa Barbara, riding and hiking. The three girls had always been required to do regular chores. Chester, the ranch foreman, had been a stern taskmaster. Her father and mother had never failed to back up Chester’s work schedules—and the penalties he imposed, for work done badly. At the funeral service for her parents, she had insisted that Chester sit in the same pew with her and Connie and their Aunt Florence, the first pew, ordinarily reserved for family. At first Florence had objected, but only briefly.

At Connie’s funeral, in the family pew, there had only been her and John—and Dennis. Chester had died, and Florence was infirm.

Having finally ordered, Paula handed the menu to the waitress, who bowed ceremoniously and withdrew.

“This is a beautiful restaurant,” Paula said. She pointed to a nearby four-panel screen, carved teak, and jade. “Look at that screen. It’s a museum piece. And the food’s famous. Really famous.”