Sooner or Later (31 page)

I
T WAS THE KIND OF DAY
C
ALIFORNIA GLORIED IN; CLEAR
blue, warm. A breeze rippled the silken surface of the ocean, and where the sun lay on it, turned it into a sheet of gold
lame.
The mountains encircling Santa Barbara were draped in the softest green velvet, and across the channel, the islands gleamed like pink stone. From the verdant bluff overlooking the ocean where Santa Barbara’s cemetery was, the oil platforms ranged along the horizon might have been warships, a Spanish armada, about to conquer California once again. It was definitely a day Miss Lottie would have approved of for her funeral.

“No miserable rain and tears,”
Ellie could hear her saying. “
Let’s have all the good rousing hymns, and champagne for everybody afterward.”

In the black limousine, slowly following the hearse through Santa Barbara’s tree-lined streets, her thoughts returned to the only other funeral she had attended. She remembered clearly sitting next to Miss Lottie in a big black car, like this one, following her parents’ coffins on their final journey.

Recalling how Miss Lottie had dressed her up in white organdy and shiny black patent Mary Janes, as though she were going to a party, today she had chosen to wear a sleeveless white linen sheath that her grandmother had always liked to see her in. She’d borrowed a wide-brimmed black straw hat of Maya’s and tucked a big, fresh, full-blown white rose into the band; and she wore black suede heels, and carried a small matching purse. As usual she had on a minimum of makeup, a brush of powder and a touch of lipstick, with big dark glasses that hid the sadness in her eyes. She guessed they made her look very L.A. but she didn’t care. This afternoon, she would share her sorrow with Miss Lottie’s friends and acquaintances, but the hurt was still inside her. She would deal with her grief, and her guilt, alone.

She felt Dan’s warm hand on hers and glanced up at him.

“You okay?”

She nodded, glad he was there for her, thankful she had met him that day. Somehow, he seemed as close a friend as Maya.

Sitting opposite in the limo, Maya smiled encouragingly. She was wearing black silk, sleeveless and soft, that swung round her body like gossamer, with a black lace mantilla over her blond hair. Next to her, Piatowsky was neat in a dark jacket and tie borrowed from Dan. And Dan looked handsome and different in a blue suit.

Dan knew Johannsen would be there, and that the ceremony would be videotaped, discreetly, by the police photographer. It was not unknown for a killer to attend the funeral of his victim. It was a kind of ghoulish triumph, he supposed. Meanwhile, he would keep his own eyes open, checking on who was there, and so would Piatowsky.

“There’s a kind of scent about a killer,” Piatowsky
had said that morning, “something about him just gets to that old olfactory nerve and tells you, watch out, something’s wrong about this guy. If he’s there, we’ll know it.”

Flanked by a motorcycle escort to hold back the traffic, the two funeral cars drove slowly down State Street, followed by a hundred others. Ellie thought how Miss Lottie would have enjoyed all the fuss as the procession turned alongside the sparkling ocean, then around the fountain and up the driveway to the chapel.

She was almost relieved when her grandmother’s coffin, covered in a blanket of scented white roses, was received by Reverend Allan, who had known her grandmother for forty years. Finally, Miss Lottie was among friends.

It seemed as if the whole town had turned out. Many of the people were as old as Miss Lottie, and their white hair and stooped shoulders brought a pang of tenderness. Ellie could remember when they’d attended her grandmother’s parties; and visited on Christmas morning when there was always open house at Journey’s End; at garden parties in summer; playing tennis; swimming; laughing and youthful.
“We’ve all had a good stay up at bat,” she
, could imagine Miss Lottie saying.
“No regrets. It’s time to move along and make room for the younger ones.”

Everyone was there: the mayor, the council members, the sheriff, the socialites and the celebrities who inhabited Montecito and had known their neighbor for decades. The manager of the Biltmore, some of the wait staff, local storekeepers and the owner of the garage who had serviced Miss Lottie’s Cadillac ever since she’d bought it in 1972.

Chan and Jake were there, and even the kid had come along to show support. She saw Michael Majors and his
wife; and Harrison Thackray, the accountant, the bank manager.
And Detective Johannsen.

In his dark suit and sober tie, Johannsen was eyeing the mourners as they arrived. There were no shady-looking characters lurking around today, though. Everyone was respectable, and respectful. Still, he knew as well as any cop that most often a killer looked just like anybody else. Besides, in his view, he was looking at the killers right now.

Johannsen couldn’t get the memory of the computer message out of his mind.
DUVEEEEEEE
… The old lady had been trying to tell them something. Who else could it mean, but Ellie?

Buck’s gaze fastened on Ellie, graceful in white, her glossy red hair in a chignon under a big black hat. He knew it was risky to attend the funeral, but felt compelled to do it. He was wary though. He prided himself he could spot a cop at fifty paces. A jailer was a jailer, whether it was in Hudson, or in Folsom. He had the men in dark suits, standing arms folded at the back, pegged for detectives the minute he’d slipped into the crowd, mingling with other mourners. He was impeccably turned out, his tie was correctly muted and his polished Gucci loafers gleamed. He looked exactly the way they did: the rich lawyers and bankers and businessmen. He was one of them.

It burned his gut when he saw Dan Cassidy standing with Ellie at the graveside, though.
As though she belonged to him.

As the pallbearers carried Miss Lottie to her final resting place on the breezy bluff overlooking the ocean, Dan thought you couldn’t ask for a more beautiful or peaceful spot: rolling green lawns, flowers, shade trees, and the memorial plaques of the hundreds of other Santa
Barbarans who had gone before, many dating back to the last century. There was a continuity in death, he thought, if you could get yourself to look at it that way. As a cop, he had always seen the worst of it: horror and tragedy and violence, the way it had been with Miss Lottie. Those deaths were not easy to accept. He saw the TV cameras focused on Ellie and hoped she wouldn’t notice the intrusion. Miss Lottie’s funeral had become public.

He gripped Ellie’s arm firmly as the Reverend Allan intoned, “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today to pay tribute to a great lady, Charlotte Amelia Stamford Parrish—Miss Lottie to all of us.”

Ellie felt herself slipping back in time. It was her parents’ funeral … the same blanket of white roses, the same mourners, the same beautiful resting place overlooking the ocean, and the soft sound of the waves on the shore.

“We ask the Lord to give strength to her beloved granddaughter, Ellie …” the minister was praying.

Piatowsky inspected the curious onlookers peering over the wall: joggers on their way to the beach, dog walkers, ordinary-looking people doing ordinary things. Any one of them might be a killer.

The congregation was singing now. Buck knew every hymn by heart. After all, hadn’t he attended church with his mother every Sunday of his life? Until he’d decided he’d had enough, that is. Fixing a suitably sorrowful expression on his face, he listened to the minister intoning the words of a psalm.

The Twenty-third Psalm moved Ellie to tears. When she was a child and knelt at the bedside to say her prayers, Miss Lottie had taught the gentle words to her. She remembered how she had always believed that the Lord was her own shepherd, looking after her personally, in his giant flock.
“Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me
… he restoreth my soul.”
Would her soul ever be restored? Somehow, she thought not.

The music was Handel, soft, inspiring. The Reverend Allan made the sign of the cross over the coffin.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …”

Buck was careful not to go too far and pretend to wipe away a tear when the minister said the words he’d waited so long to hear, but neither did he smile, which is what he wanted to do. He wanted to dance and shout hurrah.
There she goes. Good-fuckin ‘-bye-Miss Lottie. At last.

Ellie felt Dan’s arm beneath hers, his strong shoulder was there, ready for her to lean on. For a minute there was just silence. Only the soft sound of the ocean below interrupted her thoughts. Lifting her head high and straightening her back, as Miss Lottie had taught her, she took Dan’s arm and walked quickly away.

Miss Lottie had always known how to give a good party and this one at her favorite place, the Biltmore, was no exception. As always, everything was run impeccably by the attentive staff. The hotel was giving their favorite and longest client their finest send-off. A string orchestra played the show tunes that had been her favorites, selections from the thirties and
Roberta
, through the forties and
Oklahoma!
, to the eighties and
Evita.
There was champagne, of course—Veuve Clicquot because she’d always liked the idea of a widow drinking the Widow Clicquot’s champagne; the tiny salmon and cucumber sandwiches she’d always enjoyed so much at her Monday teas, the scones and cream and fresh strawberry preserves, and the famous chocolate cake. It was, after all, four o’clock, and teatime.

A rose arbor had been erected and Ellie stood with Maya and Dan, receiving her grandmother’s guests.

“It’s more like a wedding than a funeral,” Maya whispered guiltily.

Ellie smiled at her. “That’s just the way she wanted it. Tea at the Biltmore, one last time.”

“Such a tragedy, my dear,” an old friend murmured sorrowfully, shaking her hand.

The whole community had been shocked by the killing, and frightened by it. Things like this just didn’t happen in tiny, sedate, upmarket Montecito.

“It’s the passing of an era,” someone said quietly. “This place will never be the same again.”

Buck had been hesitant about going to the farewell party, it was risky, he knew. But the voice in his head urged him on.
What the hell, why shouldn’t you? There would be no party if it weren’t for you.
Grinning at that thought, he climbed into the convertible and drove round the corner to the Biltmore.
It was true; everyone was there today because of him.

Taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, Buck wandered across the lawn, smiling and nodding at people he didn’t know, but who thought they must know him, pausing to commiserate with some of the older ones, who supposed they must know him, else why was he speaking to them. He was pleased by his own cleverness, his confidence. He could do anything.
He was power.
Taking another glass of champagne, he downed it quickly, watching Ellie under the rose arbor with Cassidy.
Exactly like a wedding couple.

He went to the buffet table and took a couple of salmon and cucumber sandwiches, edging closer. She didn’t even see him. He was the invisible man.

His heart felt as though it were bursting out of his chest with rage. The pain was crippling. Setting the plate carefully down on a table, he took a deep breath, then walked, stiffly upright, away from the crowds and into
the bar. Two bourbons later, he was feeling better, and the funeral guests were departing. He collected his car, drove onto the street and parked to one side, waiting.

Ellie thanked the manager and the staff, wondering if she would ever be able to bear to return, then got into the car.

The limo driver did not take the route past the cemetery but drove instead along Coast Village Road. Ellie turned her head to look as they passed Hot Springs Road. It was truly the end of an era.

The black limousine cruised slowly past Buck, taking Ellie away from him again, but this time he didn’t follow. There was no point. As long as she was with Cassidy at the ranch, there was nothing he could do. Angry and frustrated, he knew he would just have to wait it out, until phase four of his plan was complete. Sooner or later, Ellie would be his.

E
LLIE FLUNG HER BLACK HAT ONTO THE BENCH IN THE
hall as she strode wearily back into the house. Florita came running from the kitchen. Grabbing her hands, she stared anxiously into her face.

“All is well?”

“Thank you, Florita, all is well.”

Florita suddenly flung her arms round her and hugged her.
“Ay, Madre de Dios.”
Letting go of Ellie, she crossed herself and muttered a little prayer. “Is better for you now, Señorita Ellie. You will see, is better it is over.”

Ellie’s eyes met Piatowsky’s. “Did you see anyone who looked like a killer?”

“The only person I saw who looked suspicious was Johannsen, lurking around like a stage detective.”

“He was only doing his job.” Dan’s voice was mild as he walked into the hall with Maya. “He videoed the whole thing. He’s sending it round later, wants to know if Ellie could take a look at it, see if there is anyone you might pick out. Someone you know, or a stranger, anything that might be worth him following up.” She stared
at him, blank-eyed, and he added, “You don’t have to do it tonight, if you don’t want to.”

“Of course I will.” Ellie steeled herself. She had wanted so badly for it all to be at an end, but Johannsen didn’t let up. She would do this one thing; then finally, it would be over.

A little later, the four of them were sitting around the supper table. Florita was whisking round, placing steaming dishes of
arroz con pollo
, salad and freshly made corn tortillas with
salsa verde
on the table. The baby crawled after her, levering himself up the side of Ellie’s chair.

“Ay, Carlosito, no.” She
swept him up, but Ellie held out her arms.

“Come here, Carlosito, and tell me what kind of a day you’ve had.” He perched contentedly on her knee, twisting a lock of her long hair in his chubby fingers, gazing curiously into each of their faces.