by Jance, J. A.
“Hey,” Ali called after her. “Come back. It isn’t my fault I’m so late.”
But Sam wasn’t interested in doling out forgiveness. Giving up on the cat, Ali crawled into bed, where she fell into a deep, dreamless slumber. It was after eleven when she finally staggered out to the kitchen the next morning. Even in its thermal carafe, the coffee Chris had made before he left for school was dead cold when Ali tasted it. She’d had nothing at all to drink the night before—except for far too much coffee and cocoa, which hadn’t kept her awake. Even so she felt groggy and tired and nowhere near ready for the onslaught of attention she knew was likely once her connection to the St. Francis Hospital incident was made public.
Determined to have a robe day, Ali went to make a new pot of coffee. There she found the note Chris had left for her on the counter.
“Welcome home. I know you got in very late. I pulled the phone jack out of the wall so you could sleep. Love, Chris.”
Grateful that her son was so thoughtful, Ali plugged in the phone. Immediately it began to ring.
“You’re awake then,” Edie Larson said. “I’ve been trying to call you off and on all morning.”
“What’s going on?”
“Kip didn’t make it,” Edie said. “Sandy Mitchell just called. She and Kip’s mother…How did they ever find his mother, by the way? Anyway, the two of them were both there with him a little while ago this morning when they took him off life support.”
“I’m so sorry,” Ali murmured.
“I am, too,” Edie agreed. “And your father’s really broken up about it. It gave Dad a lot of satisfaction to think he had helped Kip back from the edge. Now it’s all for nothing.”
Ali thought about the look on Elizabeth Hogan’s face as Jane Braeton had wheeled her into the ICU.
Not for nothing, Ali thought. But too little too late.
“Anyway,” Edie continued, “Bobby just went home to shower, then he’ll head down to Phoenix to bring Sandy home. Did Dave reach you?”
“No.”
“He called here a little while ago. He was on his way back to Prescott to testify in that trial. He said to tell you that Crystal’s at home sleeping, and Roxie’s supposedly coming down from Vegas later today to pick her up. Crystal wasn’t a problem when she was here at the restaurant, but from what I’m hearing about everything that’s gone on the past few days, it sounds like she’s a kid who could use some serious counseling.”
Edie Lawson’s instinctive diagnosis of Crystal Holman’s mental issues had Ali’s wholesale agreement, although she had no intention of going into any of the particulars. All Ali said was, “Yes, I think counseling is definitely in order.”
During their conversation Ali’s call-waiting signal had buzzed several times. Those had been easy to ignore. Now though, when someone rang the doorbell, Ali ended the call. While Sam scampered for the nearest hiding place, Ali pulled her robe tight around her and went to answer. Arabella Ashcroft’s butler, Leland Brooks, stood on Ali’s front porch while the yellow Rolls-Royce idled in the driveway.
“So sorry to disturb you, madam,” Mr. Brooks said through the screen when Ali opened the inside door. “Miss Arabella was most interested in being in touch with you this morning. Something about a borrowed book, I believe. She’s been calling to ask about it, but your telephone seems to be out of order and your cell phone keeps going to voice mail.”
On the way home from Phoenix Ali had struggled with what she should do. She knew she would most likely call someone down in Phoenix to report her suspicions, but not until after she’d had at least one cup of coffee.
“I’m so sorry,” Ali told the waiting butler. “I don’t have access to Miss Ashcroft’s book right now. I can’t answer my cell phone since I had to leave it down in Phoenix last night.”
Mr. Brooks glanced warily over his shoulder in the direction of the Rolls.
“Is she with you?” Ali asked.
He nodded. “I’m afraid so,” he said. “As I said, she’s rather upset about this. I’ll be glad to relay the information, however.”
Clad in only a bathrobe with her hair a mess and no makeup on, Ali was hardly in any condition to receive guests—especially guests who were accustomed to entertaining in the manner Arabella Ashcroft did. Still, Ali felt an obligation to give the woman the bad news about the missing diary in person.
“No,” Ali said. “I’m not exactly prepared for company, but I’m the one who should tell her what happened to it. Please ask her to come in, Mr. Brooks.”
The butler bowed. “Of course, madam,” he said. “I shall extend your invitation.”
While he was gone, Ali hurriedly swiped all the loose papers off both the dining room table and the coffee table. She stowed those and the computer in her bedroom. By the time she emerged, Mr. Brooks had ushered Arabella to the front door. She didn’t look nearly as put together as she had the other day. She seemed anxious and ill at ease. The butler handed her off to Ali and then returned to the waiting Rolls. Arabella allowed herself to be led inside. When she spoke, though, she sounded like her old self.
“You’re most gracious to invite me in this way,” Arabella said. “I shouldn’t have come. It’s quite rude to show up unannounced like this. I’ve never done it before—ever.”
“It’s fine,” Ali assured her. “Please do come in. I’m sorry you weren’t able to reach me by phone. As I told Mr. Brooks, I ended up leaving my cell phone down in Phoenix last night. My landline is back in service now, but it was temporarily out of order.”
Once seated on the couch, Arabella glanced curiously around the room. “Evie always said she was going to buy a mobile home,” she remarked. “I must say, it looks quite solid and not the least bit mobile.”
Ali laughed. “Mobile homes should probably just be called manufactured homes. Most are only mobile until they’re delivered,” she explained. “Once they’ve been set up on a slab or a foundation, they usually stay put.”
“Barring tornadoes or hurricanes,” Arabella said.
“Yes,” Ali agreed. “Barring those. Now how do you take your coffee—black, cream and sugar?”
“Black by all means,” Arabella said.
Ali went out into the kitchen. As she filled coffee mugs and set them on a tray, she wrestled with how best to break the bad news. In the end Arabella beat her to the punch.
“Where is my diary?” she asked as Ali carried the coffee into the living room. “I must have it back.”
“Arabella,” Ali said. “I’m so sorry. I don’t have it.”
“You don’t have it!” Arabella exclaimed. “What do you mean? Surely you haven’t lost it!”
Ali set the tray on the table. “It isn’t lost,” she said soothingly. “But I don’t have it here. There was a problem in Phoenix last night—at one of the hospitals. You may have seen it on the news. I was there, and, as it happens, so was the diary. It was in my purse. I lost my purse in all the confusion. I’m sure the police have the purse and the diary, too.”
“How could you be so careless!” Arabella declared angrily. “I want it back, and I want it back today!”
Arabella’s abrupt change of mood took Ali by surprise. Surely this wasn’t that big a deal. The diary had been under wraps for more than half a century. Why was it so essential that she have it back immediately?
“Please, Arabella,” Ali continued hurriedly. “I didn’t do it on purpose. My purse, my cell phone, and your diary were picked up during the evidence sweep. I’m sure they’ll all be returned in good time. Besides, when you gave it to me the other day, it didn’t seem like you were in that big a hurry. I was under the impression that I could read it at my leisure.”
“Did you read it?” Arabella asked sharply.
“Yes.”
“I hoped you wouldn’t. I told you not to.”
“I thought I was supposed to read it so I could help you decide about the book you’re writing.”
“I’m not writing a book,” Arabella sai
d at once. “I’ve changed my mind about that, too.”
“Why?” Ali asked. “What changed your mind? What’s going on?”
“I want my diary back. How can that be so difficult to understand?”
“Have the police talked to you about what happened to your nephew?”
“Two very nice detectives from Phoenix came to notify me that Billy was dead,” Arabella said, softening a little. “Yesterday, I think it was, or maybe the day before.”
“And did you tell them what was going on between the two of you?”
“I told them Billy wanted to do a reverse mortgage for me. Once I had time to think it over, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea.”
“Wait a minute,” Ali objected. “You told me the other day that Billy threatened you; that he was going to try to have you declared incompetent and put away somewhere.”
“He wouldn’t have,” Arabella said. “He’d never do such a dreadful thing.”
Of course not, Ali thought. Especially if he’s dead.
“The cops need to know what was going on between the two of you,” Ali said aloud. “And I’m going to tell them.”
Arabella looked at Ali in dismay. “The things I said to you were relayed in the strictest confidence.”
“You may have thought it was in confidence, but I’m not an attorney,” Ali said. “There’s no attorney/client privilege when you talk to me, and no expectation of privacy, either. Concealing information in a homicide investigation is a felony.”
“Surely you don’t think I had something to do with Billy’s death.”
“Did you?” Ali asked.
Arabella stared at her and didn’t answer.
“Did you?” Ali prodded again.
“You wouldn’t really go to the police, would you?” Arabella asked.
“Yes, I’m afraid I would. I’ve just spent two days giving my friend’s teenage daughter hell for not coming forward and giving pertinent information in another set of homicides. It would be hypocritical for me to keep quiet in this one.”
“Even after everything Mother and I did for you?”
“I’m sorry, but yes. Even after all that. Not because I want to; because I have to. And no matter how much it costs, you need to find yourself an attorney.”
Leaving her coffee untouched on the table, Arabella surged to her feet. She stood and straightened her sweater, the same mended cardigan she had worn on the previous occasion. Ali reached out to help her, but Arabella would have none of it.
“Leave me alone,” she said, drawing away as if Ali’s very touch was poisonous. “If you’re determined to go to the authorities, we have nothing further to discuss.”
She walked unassisted as far as the door. At the entryway table, she turned and looked back. “I know something about killing,” she said. “I tried to kill my brother Bill once, you know. He came into my room, grabbed Blueboy out of his cage, and squashed him flat. Squeezed my poor little bird in his fist until he was dead. He told me if I ever told anyone, he’d do the same thing to me—squeeze me until I was dead, and he put his hand around my throat to show me he could do it. So I stole a knife from the kitchen and hid it under my pillow. That night, when he came to my bedroom the way I knew he would, I pulled out the knife and stabbed him. I was just a kid, and I think it surprised the hell out of him. He went to the hospital, but the son of a bitch didn’t die. Damn him anyway, he didn’t die.”
Arabella’s unsolicited confession was as chilling as it was fierce.
“What about Billy?” Ali asked. “What about your nephew?”
“What about him? Believe me, if I had wanted to kill him, I would have.”
But did you? Ali wondered.
Arabella turned and stormed out the door. Ali watched through the sidelights as Leland Brooks hurried forward, offered Arabella his arm, and then carefully led her back to the waiting Rolls. They might have been an old married couple making their way together across treacherous terrain. Once he closed the car door, he turned and looked back toward where Ali was standing. Then, with a shake of his head, he climbed into the driver’s seat.
As they drove out of sight, Ali couldn’t help wondering if Arabella Ashcroft was capable of murder. Certainly she was capable of attempted murder. She had said as much herself. And what about Arabella’s lies? Either she had lied to Ali when she said Billy had threatened her or she had lied to the cops when she said he had not. And since Billy Ashcroft was definitely dead, the cops needed to get to the bottom of the situation one way or the other.
For a long time after Arabella left, Ali struggled with what she should do. Yes, she owed her education to Anna Lee and Arabella Ashcroft. And yes, her whole career had come about as a result of their generosity. But if Arabella had murdered her nephew in cold blood—dragged him behind a car until he was dead—Ali couldn’t just keep quiet. She couldn’t.
She tried calling Dave, but he was probably in court. His phone went straight to voice mail. Instead of leaving a message, Ali went into her bedroom and located everything she’d emptied out of her jacket pocket the night before. There, along with her car keys, she found a collection of business cards that belonged to a series of Phoenix PD detectives. She picked one at random—Detective Mike Ryan. She dialed his number hoping he’d be able to put her in touch with whichever investigators had been assigned to the William Ashcroft homicide.
It’s a homicide investigation, she told herself firmly as Ryan’s extension began to ring. I don’t have a choice.
While Ali waited for someone to call her back, she turned her attention to the blog. The situation at the hospital was an ongoing investigation. That meant there was little she could say, but she felt obliged to say something.
CUTLOOSEBLOG.COM
Friday, January 13, 2006
I know my name is showing up in the news in reference to what happened last night at St. Francis
Hospital down in Phoenix. I know many of you are worried about me. My mailbox is brimming with e-mails asking me if I’m okay and letting me know that the blog stopped opening earlier this morning due to too many hits on the server. So I’m posting this and hoping you’ll be able to read it sometime soon.
I’m fine and I’m very grateful to be alive. My friend’s daughter, who was targeted in the attack, is also safe and back home with her family.
Yes, it’s true. I’m the same Ali Reynolds who was involved in the hostage situation at the hospital, but because of the nature of the ongoing investigation, I’ve been advised to say nothing more on that topic. If you’re connected to one of the media outlets and you’re reading this post, please understand that if you do happen to reach me, all you’ll be given for the trouble is the usual “no comment.”
I know that readers of my blog are accustomed to more information than this, but for right now this will have to do. Once again, let me say thank you for your concern, your prayers, and your e-mails.
More on all of this later. With the way investigations of this magnitude go, however, I expect that means MUCH later.
Babe, posted 1:05P.M.
Evidently the server was still having difficulties. It took a very long time for Ali’s post to upload. When it finally did, she turned to answering some of her voluminous e-mail. It was relatively mindless work that kept her from watching the telephone and waiting for it to ring. Detective Ryan had told her that someone involved in the Ashcroft investigation would get back to her, but she wondered how long that would take.
One at a time she made her way through the long list of received mail, discarding the spam and answering most with a brief one-or two-sentence response. Halfway to the bottom, she found a message from Velma. As she scanned down the list she saw it was only the most recent of three from the same address.
Dear Babe,
I’m thinking about all this. Waiting is hard.
VELMA
Closing that one, Ali scrolled down to the first of Velma’s e-mails and opened that.
Dear Babe,
I can’t thank you enough for putting me in touch with those very nice people at Cancer Resource. As you said, it was quite expensive, but I was able to sign up over the Internet and I’ve been assigned a caseworker. She sent me the documents needed to request all my medical records and test results from my primary physician so I could be transferred over to them. She said once I had signed the various releases, they would make arrangements to have my records sent or delivered to one of their consulting oncologists. Once they have them, they’ll make an appointment for me to have a second opinion.
Considering the way things have worked in the past, I expected it would take several weeks to accomplish all this, but the caseworker told me thatthe whole idea is to streamline the process, not slow it down. So the biggest variable will be how long it takes my primary physician to release the records. I just called him and told his office manager that I expect things to be expedited on their end. We’ll see.
Anyway, thank you for sending me to someone who seems to understand that people facing a cancer diagnosis don’t have all the time in the world.
VELMA T IN LAGUNA
That was something Ali remembered from her experience with her first husband, Dean. It seemed as though it had taken forever to get lined up for the various tests and then it took even longer to get the results back, especially if the news was bad. In fact, the worse the news, the longer it took to get it.
She scrolled up the list and read Velma’s next note, one that had been sent on Thursday.
Dear Babe,
I’m still waiting. A courier is supposed to pick up my records today. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but it seems like there’s a new lump that’s right next to where they did the needle biopsy. And maybe one on the other side, too. If that’s the case, if these damned things are growing that fast, maybe the first doctor was right and there’s nothing to be done. But if I’m sick, shouldn’t I feel sick? If I opt for treatment—surgery or surgeries, chemo, or radiation—I know I’ll for sure feel sick then.
