Sooner or Later (25 page)

Pancho leapt onto the end of the bed, turned round once or twice, then settled down, his head on his paws. Ellie closed her eyes. There was no sound and she guessed hazily it was too early yet for birdsong. Her eyelids drifted down and she fell suddenly into a dark pit of blessed oblivion.

Peeking in a short while later, Dan thought she slept like a child, her arms straight out on top of the white
coverlet, her mouth slightly open. Pancho raised his eyes and looked at him, then went back to sleep. He closed the door softly behind him. For a few short hours, Ellie would know peace.

M
AYA WAS UP EARLY THAT MORNING.
S
HE HAD A YOGA
class at eight-thirty. Yawning and stretching like a sleek-muscled cat, she switched on the TV and went to take a shower.

“L.A. Today. Here is your local news. A well-known Santa Barbara woman wat found murdered in her home last night, along with her housekeeper, and the family dog. Eighty-six-year-old Charlotte Parrish was found dead …

Maya swiveled round, staring at the TV.

“… along with Maria Novales, age seventy. Police are not giving out any details, as yet. Mrs. Parrish was one of the city’s leading social lights for decades, and her home was famous for its magnificent gardens. The crime was discovered by her granddaughter, Ellie Parrish Duveen, last night, and police are questioning her.

“Now for today’s weather and the freeway report….”

Maya’s jaw dropped open and her eyes bugged from her head. For a minute, she was paralyzed; then, heart thumping, she leapt for the phone.

Ellie’s home number didn’t answer. Of course it wouldn’t, she was up in Santa Barbara. But where? Not at Journey’s End, surely? Her trembling finger was already dialing the number of Running Horse Ranch.

Oh God, oh God, poor Ellie, poor Miss Lottie, Maria … oh God, oh God
… the words ran endlessly round in her mind.

“SÍ
? Señor Cassidy’s house,” Florita answered the phone.

“Is Ellie there?” Maya’s fingers drummed a tattoo on the table.

“Momento.”

In the background, Maya could hear her calling for Dan….

“Dan Cassidy here.”

She breathed a shaky sigh of relief. “It’s Maya Morris, Ellie’s friend. I heard the news on television, I can’t get her at her home number, I’m so afraid for her …”

“It’s okay, Maya, she’s here. I brought her home with me last night.”

“Oh, thank God … thank
you.”
She sagged with relief. “Is she all right? No, that’s a foolish question, how can she possibly be all right? I have to see her, I’m on my way right now … tell me what I can do for her.” She was babbling like a crazy woman, not knowing which sentence to get out first. All she knew was Ellie was hurting and she needed to be with her.

“She’s numb, Maya. It’s going to be tough for her to get over it, seeing her grandmother like that.”

Maya wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. “Oh poor, dear Miss Lottie …”

“I guess she could use a change of clothing, if you could bring that for her.”

“Sure.” Maya had a key to Ellie’s house and Ellie had
a key to her apartment. For emergencies, they’d said, but there had never been one. Until now.

Dan gave her directions to the ranch, then said, “We’re on our way to Santa Barbara now. The police want to talk to Ellie. We’ll probably be back by the time you arrive.”

“I’ll get there as soon as I can.” She hesitated. “Dan?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell her I love her, would you?”

“I’ll do that.”

His voice was steady, and she thanked heaven for Dan Cassidy as she put down the phone and hurried to get ready. At least with him, Ellie was safe.

T
HE NEWS WAS ON ALL THE NETWORKS AS WELL AS THE
local TV channels. Clicking through them, Buck sipped his morning coffee, smiling. He’d certainly hit the headlines this time.

Dunking a croissant into the coffee, he sat back, enjoying himself. The Santa Barbara channel was really going to town, with pictures of Journey’s End and Waldo Stamford, standing next to President Roosevelt on the balustraded terrace, looking down at the immaculate
parterre
garden. Then there was Miss Lottie as a bride; then as the young mother whose daughter had Ellie’s eyes. His stomach clenched as he thought of Ellie. He took another swig of the hot coffee. She was waiting for him, like a rose in a thorny garden. Now all he had to do was pluck her.

He jolted upright, spilling the coffee as a picture of Rory Duveen filled the screen. They were telling about the automobile accident. There was even an old shot of the crumpled Bentley at the bottom of the ravine.

Buck glared at his father’s smiling image, hating him,
hating her, the beautiful woman he had chosen to marry.
The heiress.
He gave a short bark of laughter. Some heiress. The pair of them had spent it all. And Miss Lottie had gone and done the same thing. Still, Journey’s End would make him a millionaire. He would be rich. And free.

There were more pictures. Of Miss Lottie as the society hostess; at charity functions at Journey’s End. And finally, a picture of Ellie.

“Her granddaughter and only living relative”
the presenter said,
“and the one who found the body.”

Buck remembered last night, waiting for her to come to the window and find him there. He remembered the feel of the cold steel knife in his hand, knowing that he would have to kill her. He smiled, a secret icy little smile. Her turn would come.

Meanwhile, he was checking out of the hotel, and returning to L.A. He would lie low for a while, see how things developed.

P
IATOWSKY WAS IN THE DEN OF HIS THREE-BEDROOM
brick home, just across the George Washington Bridge from Manhattan, in suburban Fort Lee, New Jersey.

It was a pleasant room, not too big, with a bay window and a view of the small back garden. It had a sand-colored wall-to-wall berber that wouldn’t show the dirt tracked in by kids, a beat-up brown leather sofa, a couple of floral chintz armchairs, a big brick fireplace and a large TV set.

From where he sat, he could see his elder son, seven-year-old Michael, at the kitchen table, doing his homework. The five-year-old, Ben, was upstairs being bathed by his mother, and the three-year-old and the darlin’ of his heart, his daughter Maggie—short for Margaretta—was curled up on his knee, one hand clasped round his neck and the other in her face as she sucked on her thumb.

“There’ll be nothing left by the time you’re four,” he reminded her. She rolled her big brown eyes in his direction for a second, then continued sucking. She smelled
sweetly of baby powder, shampoo and clean pajamas, and he gave a happy little sigh. Sugar and spice, that’s what Little girls were made of, all right.

He shifted slightly so he could see his watch. Another half hour and he would have to leave. He was on the six o’clock tonight, which meant he probably wouldn’t get home until round three, or even four if they were busy. Not Angela’s favorite, but there it was, she was a cop’s wife. She was used to it. And in a couple of days she was taking the kids to visit her mother in Maine, which left him free to go fishin’ with Cassidy. He was kinda lookin’ forward to it, seeing how the bastard was gettin’ along, in sunshineland.

Maggie felt heavy on his chest and he glanced down at her. Her eyes were closed and she had stopped sucking. He smiled, clicking through the channels with the sound on low, until he found the NBC nightly news.

He didn’t catch it at first; it was just another homicide out in California. Two old ladies and their dog, living alone in some mansion, near Santa Barbara.

He perked up at the familiar name of the town, looking at the picture of a handsome, frail-looking woman, and then the house. Pretty spectacular, he thought, and probably worth quite a bit. They were saying the house had been robbed, jewelry taken … and then they showed a picture of a lovely young woman with a big, warm smile.
“Ellie Parrish Duveen is Mrs. Parrish’s granddaughter and only living relative”
they said.
“It was she who found the bodies.”

Only living relative.
Piatowsky thought of the pricey mansion and the family money she would inherit. He wondered fleetingly if Ellie Parrish Duveen had done it.

Then, cradling his daughter in his arms, he carried her upstairs to bed, kissed his wife and boys goodbye, and was on his way to the city and the night’s mayhem.

T
HEY WERE IN A BLEAK GRAY ROOM AT THE
S
ANTA
B
ARBARA
police department. Coffee in paper cups steamed, untouched, on the table in front of them. Ellie slumped numbly in the hard chair. She felt nothing. Not pain, nor anger, nor fear. It was as if her very soul had died.

Johannsen took a sip of his coffee and glanced at his partner, Detective Ray Mullins, tall, thin, dark and enigmatic, standing in the background, arms folded, watching. He cleared his throat. “Miss Duveen, I’d like you to go over again for me, precisely what your movements were last night. With exact times, if you can recall them.”

Ellie lifted dead eyes and stared at him. “I was in my car on 101, driving to MÍontecito. I was near Camarillo and it was foggy. I called Gran to tell her I was coming by to surprise her. There was no reply….”

Wearily, she went through her story one more time. She would tell it a thousand times if she had to, if it would help them find the killer.

“And you arranged to meet Mr. Cassidy at the house?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

She was wearing jeans and boots and a white oversized T-shirt that belonged to Dan, under a black sweater. She shivered, it was cold in here.

“And what was the purpose of meeting Mr. Cassidy?”

Surprise flashed through her eyes, he hadn’t asked her this before. “He’d never seen Journey’s End, I said I would show him around. Then we were going to have dinner….”

“And where was that? Did you have a reservation some place?”

She shook her head, bewildered. “No … it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing….”

“Miss Parrish, how long have you known Mr. Cassidy?”

She ran a distracted hand through her hair. “Maybe … a few weeks.”

“So he’s not an old friend of the family?”

“He’d met Miss Lottie once. We had tea together.”

Johannsen’s eyes met those of Mullins again. His voice lost its softness, it was firm, even harsh. “It’s my understanding that you are the sole remaining family member. That in fact you stand to inherit Mrs. Parrish’s entire estate. Is that true?”

She nodded again, puzzled at the unexpected tack the questioning was taking. “Yes, but …”

“That would be quite a motive for murder?”

She sat back, shocked.
“You can’t think I killed her?”
Her voice had a rising tone of horror. Unbelieving, she slumped down again, shaking her head.
“Oh no, no, no, no …”

Mullins fished a packet of Luckys from his pocket. “Cigarette, Miss Parrish?”

She didn’t hear him, her heart was breaking all over
again. It was awful, horrible, impossible they could believe she would do such a thing …

“No one has suggested you did anything, Miss Parrish. It’s just a line of questioning we have to pursue.” Personally, Johannsen thought it likely. Somehow the robbery scene didn’t sit right. He had the impression that there hadn’t been much jewelry to steal, nothing of great value anyhow, certainly not enough to butcher two old women for. Though there was no use trying to figure what happened to people’s minds under those circumstances. Not these days, when they would put a bullet through a store owner’s head for a couple of bucks.

“I’d appreciate it, Miss Duveen, if you’d accompany us back to the house. We need you to check Miss Lottie’s possessions, tell us, if you can, exactly what’s missing so we can make an inventory.”

She half rose from her seat, panicked. “Back to that room?”

“It might be helpful in finding the killer.”

Ellie wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. “I’ll do anything for that,” she agreed. Johannsen was already out of his chair. “But I want Dan to come with me.”

He could have lived without that one. “Sure, okay, bring him along if it makes you feel better.” He hadn’t completely dismissed the idea of the pair of them as murderers.

Ellie held tightly to Dan’s hand in the squad car as they raced along Cabrillo Boulevard. The palm trees ruffled in the breeze and the sun sparkled on the blue sea, everybody looked the same, normal. Past the bird sanctuary on the left where Miss Lottie used to like to take her binoculars and keep score of any new arrivals. Past the beautiful cemetery on the right with its view of the ocean, where Ellie’s mother and father lay side by side
next to Waldo Stamford, and where soon her grandmother would join them. Past the freeway entrance into Coast Village Road. Then the left turn into Hot Springs, the familiar curves in the road as they drove up the hill.

“You okay?” Dan looked worriedly at her as the car turned between the massive griffin gateposts. She nodded, but her hand clung to his and her usually soft mouth was clenched in a tight line. He knew she was holding herself in control by a hairbreadth. It wasn’t easy, what she was going to do, but she’d insisted on doing it, even though he’d told her she had a right to say no.

A pair of uniformed officers guarded the gates and there were more at the front door. The yellow crime scene tape was still in place, a dozen cars were parked outside and men hurried purposefully in and out of the house.

For the first time in her life, Ellie did not feel as though she were coming home. All that Journey’s End had meant to her—her grandmother’s home, her mother’s, and hers—now was nothing.

Johannsen and Mullins were waiting for them on the steps. “This way, Miss Duveen.”

Mullins ushered her inside, as though she didn’t know the way. He walked in front of her up the stairs. As she followed each tread was a death knell through her heart.