Sooner or Later (26 page)

“This way, Miss Duveen.” Johannsen held back the door.

“I’m doing this for you, Gran,”
Ellie told her as she walked into that terrible room again.
“I’ll help you, I’ll help find who did this to you, I promise I will.”
But it was hard, it was so hard. The brownish stain on the rug was her blood, she had lain here, lost her slipper there … this was where Bruno died….

“We found the door to the safe open, Miss Parrish.
Do you know of anyone else who had a key, besides your grandmother?” Johannsen was brisk, businesslike in his dark suit and white shirt.

She shook her head again. “Miss Lottie never locked it. She said she had nothing worth stealing. And anyhow who would want to take anything from an old woman?” Her voice cracked, and she steeled herself again.

“Can you tell us exactly what is missing?”

She peered inside the safe. “Her pearls … it was an eighteen-inch rope of twelve-millimeter Southsea pearls …”

Johannsen’s brows rose. “Worth a small fortune in themselves.”

“I suppose so, but Miss Lottie had had them for so long, since she was eighteen, I don’t think she ever considered their value. I doubt they were insured.” She fingered the pearls at her own throat. “I don’t imagine mine are, either. They were just family pieces, treasured for their memories more than their value.”

Johannsen looked disbelieving. “What else?”

“Her diamond engagement ring, a round solitaire, very old-fashioned. I’ve no idea how many carats, or what it’s worth. Maybe her attorneys will know. A couple of smaller diamond rings, and a sapphire. Some antique brooches, pearl earrings, a pair of diamond drops. That’s about it, but as I said, Mr. Majors, at Majors, Fleming and Untermann in Santa Barbara, will be able to help you with the details.”

“Take a look around, Miss Duveen. Tell us if you spot anything else missing.”

Averting her eyes from the bloodstains, Ellie looked round at the familiar objects that had formed part of her grandmother’s life for as long as she could remember. The pair of Egyptian malachite obelisks on the ornate gilded mantel; the French ormolu clock with the three
fat cherubs she had liked so much when she was a child, giving them names: Fatsy, Patsy and Cupid. The crystal and silver knickknacks; the old photographs. Her gaze lingered on the night table where Miss Lottie kept her favorite picture of her, taken just after she’d returned from Paris with a bunch of cooking diplomas and a world of experience behind her. Her eyes widened, in surprise. “The photograph is gone.”

Johannsen hurried forward. “What photograph?”

“It was of me, in a silver frame. Gran always kept it by her bedside. She said when she woke in the night, I was always there, smiling at her….”

“Anything else, Miss Parrish?”

“No, nothing else.” Weariness settled over her like a heavy blanket. She took one last, long look around the room that had meant so much to her, then turned and walked swiftly away. She knew she would never see it again.

She was silent on the drive back to Running Horse, her head back, her eyes closed. The damaged Explorer grunted as Dan gunned up the crumbling blacktop lane that led through the vineyard to the house. Without opening her eyes, she said, “Sorry.”

He glanced sideways at her. “Sorry for what?”

“For smacking up your car. Again.”

“That’s okay, you’re forgiven.” His mind was on the missing photo. There were more valuable things in the room, so why would a thief take Ellie’s picture? Not just for the silver frame, he was sure of that.

In the house, there were a dozen messages on the machine; from Ellie’s friends; from the Parrish family lawyers and accountants who had been in contact with the police. From Chan and Terry and Jake. From Maria’s relatives in Guadalajara. And from Piatowsky.

“Remember me?” he said. “I’m the old bastard that’s coming to visit day after tomorrow. Better get that bed warmed, and the women.” He laughed. “Just jokin’ around, pal, just jokin’. Meanwhile, I hope you’re helping solve that juicy murder out your way? Sounds like those guys could use a bit of help. Give me a call.”

Ellie was sitting on the sofa, looking helplessly at him. “I have to call Maria’s family. And what about the funeral? What shall I do?”

“Why don’t you let me take care of it all for you?”

“Would you?” She was so pathetically grateful.

“Will you trust me with it?”

Ellie reached out, touched his face. “You’re my friend. I’d trust you with anything.”

Even though it was sunny out, she looked cold and Dan put a match to the fire, then knelt and slipped off her shoes. Swinging her legs up onto the sofa, he wrapped a blue horse-blanket round her, then called Florita to bring hot tea.

He took her fingers and kissed them, just as a car squealed to a stop outside.

“Ellie, Ellie …” Maya raced up the steps, flung herself across the porch and through the door. She stood in the hall, glancing wildly around, a bunch of summery flowers clutched to her black-Lycra chest. “There you are.” She ran past Dan and grabbed Ellie. “Oh baby, baby, I love you, I’m so sorry …”

Their tears mingled as they held each other, sisters of the heart, sobbing their sorrow and pain away. Dan picked up the bunch of flowers and took them to the kitchen for Florita to find a vase. He would tell her they had another guest tonight, and that she should make something light and appetizing for dinner.

Then he went to the office and called Piatowsky.

P
IATOWSKY WAS PUSHING AN ANCIENT LAWNMOWER
around the narrow strip of grass. Along with a small paved patio, a couple of spindly Japanese maples he’d planted two years ago, and Angela’s precious roses, plus the kids’ playhouse he’d built himself (an effort involving many treks to Home Depot and an ultimate understanding of why he was a cop and not a carpenter), this was the entire garden. A low gray sky threatened rain and a chill wind blew off the river. Swinging the mower around, he decided he was definitely looking forward to California.

The cell phone rang and he flipped it from his pocket. “Yeah?”

“Piatowsky, it’s Dan.”

His mouth widened in that snaggletoothed grin that made him look like a kid, instead of a mature Manhattan detective. Dropping the mower, he ran a hand through his thinning, windswept blond hair. “Just thinkin’ about you, out there in the sunshine. I’m freezin’ my ass off here in New York.”

“I’m glad you’re coming out here.”

He caught the serious tone in Dan’s voice. “What’s up?”

“A friend of mine’s in trouble. Her grandmother was killed last night. At her mansion in Santa Barbara. I get the feeling the police suspect her of doing it.”

“The old lady in Santa Barbara? Yeah, I heard about it.” Piatowsky hesitated. “How good a friend is she?”

“As good as it gets.”

He knew Dan was talking romance here. He would need to tread carefully. Clearing his throat, he said, “Dan, I kinda wondered about that myself. I mean, she’s the only living relative of a rich old lady who’s been murdered. It’s a logical chain of thought, for a cop.”

“Not a chance,” Dan said grimly. “I’d arranged to meet her there. I was
there
, at the scene, immediately after she found them. This is one woman who really loved her grandmother, she’d been more like a mother to her. And the housekeeper was more than just that, she was family. Even the dog got it. The safe was robbed, he took her jewelry, turned the place over. Have you been in to work today? No? Then you won’t have heard. Okay, get this, Piatowsky. She was strangled. And he left a signature. The same cross as on the Times Square hooker.”

“Jesus.” Piatowsky was stunned. “But it was a robbery with violence … our man wouldn’t go for that. It’s not his kick.”

“Exactly. So do we have a copycat?”

Piatowsky shook his head. “Makes no sense to me. What evidence have they got?”

“Nothing yet, that I know of. Forensics is working on it. My guess is the autopsy will exonerate Ellie. It needed a lot of brute strength to do what the killer did to the old lady. The housekeeper was shot, though, and the dog.
The robbery looked fake to me, like a setup, you know? To cover up something else. In fact, if you ask me, this was a planned execution. And our signature killer is someone with an obsessive compulsive disorder. It’s like a ritual, carving his sign on his victims.”

“Kinda odd, that,” Piatowsky said. It definitely was not the norm to have two different methods of killing at a single crime scene. “Unless there were two of them.”

“Two killers? You could be right….”

He heard Dan sigh at the other end of the line. “I sure could use you out here, Piatowsky.”

“Moral support, huh?”

“More than that. We have to solve this crime.”

“Okay, fella, don’t sweat. I’ll be there tomorrow. Plane gets in at eleven-thirty, United.”

“I’ll be there.”

As he rang off, Piatowsky thought regretfully about the fishing and the long, lazy evenings on the front porch, sipping cold beer and enjoying all that clean, fresh country air. Somehow, he got the feeling this visit wasn’t going to be quite like that.

He pushed the mower one more length of the lawn, then the heavens opened. Sighing, he told himself that at least in California, the sun would be shining.

F
LORITA WAS BUSTLING ROUND, SETTING THE LONG REFECTORY
table for dinner. Somehow, though she never looked hurried, she moved fast, her plump feet in red flats twinkling, her full red skirt swishing pleasantly as she placed a tall glass vase of fluffy green Queen Anne’s lace and orange marigolds, scarlet poppies and bright blue cornflowers exactly in the center. Carlosito crawled behind her, clinging to her legs, trying to pull himself upright. She turned to smile at him.

“Ay, niño
, you are such a big boy now. Soon you will walk.”

Scooping him up, she trotted back to the kitchen to check on her black bean soup, the slow-roasted chicken, and the fresh green salad. Tortillas were already prepared and the aroma of garlic and rosemary wafted out the open windows on the breeze.

Ortega’s silver-toed boots clattered on the saltillotiled floor as he swung through the back door. “How is she?” His mustache bristled anxiously, and for once there was no smile in his brown eyes.

“Not good.” Florita’s glossy braid swung from side to side as she shook her head. “She is dying inside, I can tell.
Pobrecita, ay, qué horror, qué tragedia”
Tears stood in her eyes and she clutched the baby close to her.

“And
el señor?”

“He is a man with a burden on his shoulders.”

They looked at each other, then Ortega gave a little shrug. “He is strong, he can carry such a burden. Besides, he is a man in love, and there is a saying in America,
Triunfa todo el amor.
Love conquers all.”

“She has a friend here now, to help her.” Florita put the baby down and he crawled rapidly to his rather. “Tonight, though, she must eat. Then she has to sleep, get some rest.”

“I’ll speak with the señor, see if there is anything I can do to help.” Swinging the baby onto his shoulders, Ortega did a little dance around the room, making Carlosito squeal with delight.

On her way downstairs, Ellie heard them. It was such a happy, innocent sound, a baby laughing. There was a wistful look in her eyes as she walked across the hall into the living room. A log fire sparked in the grate, even though it was warm and the windows were open, and she knew Dan must have lit it especially for her. There were flowers on the Mexican wooden coffee table and a bottle of white wine chilling in the galvanized tin bucket on the battered pine sideboard, which Dan had told her he’d picked up for next to nothing in a junk shop in Santa Barbara.

Walking to the tall sash window, she leaned on the sill, listening to the birdcalls, gazing at the long view down the hill. It was so peaceful, so normal. It meant, she thought somberly, that regardless of personal tragedy, life went on. Babies laughed, birds sang, dinners were prepared.

Sighing, she turned away, just as Maya appeared. They were both wearing jeans and clean white shirts. Ellie’s hair was pulled tightly back from her unmade-up face, sharpening her cheekbones, emphasizing her sad, shadowed eyes and exposing the jagged white scar running across her forehead.

“We look like a modern-day Greek chorus,” Maya said, deliberately trying to lighten up. “But at least that’s better than the way we looked earlier. Is that wine I see in the bucket over there?”

“It certainly is.” Dan came in, followed by Ortega. “Can I pour you a glass? It’s the Cakebread chardonnay I like so much.”

“It will not be so good as ours.” Ortega carried a basket of logs over to the fireplace. “Though is
very
good. I admit it.”

“And, of course, you’re not prejudiced.” Maya grinned, accepting the glass from Dan.

“No, Señorita, I am merely honest.”

They laughed as Dan handed Ellie a glass, and poured one for Carlos and himself. “Only to taste,” Carlos demurred, taking it.

“I want to drink a toast.” Ellie held up her wineglass, looking round at her friends. Her
good
friends. “To Miss Lottie.”

Dan threw her a surprised glance, but she seemed calm, and in control as they raised their glasses and drank to the memory of her grandmother.

“And now to Maria Novales, my friend, my family.”

Maya looked warily at her. She knew Ellie well enough to recognize that she was still stretched taut as a wire.

“And, of course, to dear Bruno, who gave them both so many years of happiness, and finally, even his life.”

Pancho wuffed as he came skidding through the open
front door, followed by Cecil. Ignoring them, they headed for the kitchen and the tempting aroma of roast chicken.

“That dog’s heart is in his stomach,” Ellie said, and Dan grinned. It was the first normal, everyday comment she’d made since it happened.

“The wine is excellent.” Maya was trying to keep it low-key, even though the undercurrent threatened to drag them down again any minute.

“Very good, very good.” Ortega held his glass aloft inspecting the color. “This wine is a role model for chardonnay.”