Regina pulled her kimono tightly together, self-conscious with him standing over her. She uncrossed her ankles only to cross them again.
He laid a hand on the back of her chair. His finger traced the pattern of a brocade flower. In a quiet voice he said, “I’m going to Napa tonight. Come with me.”
“John,” she started with a tone of exasperation. “Kristy--”
“—Is spending the weekend with Sonya and her parents,” he cut in. “She’s in good hands and you know it.”
“I have a TV program to put on tomorrow.”
“We’ll get back in plenty of time.”
“Yes, but--”
“I’m going with or without you. If you go with me then I won’t have to worry about you ... alone here.”
“That’s dirty pool,” she said tightly, feeling a sudden coldness at the back of her neck.
“That’s how desperate I am.” He took a wisp of her hair between two fingers and rubbed it softly.
“What good will it do to go to Napa. If she has an alibi--?”
“That’s just it, on the afternoon that Tammy died she doesn’t have an alibi. I called her mother in Napa. She saw her daughter for only a few minutes on Saturday morning. Amelia, it seems, had to cut the visit short to meet a business associate.”
Regina sat up. “You can’t possibly believe that she drove into the city, went into a health club, and killed Tammy?”
“No. But I do believe she rendezvoused with the killer that afternoon. Why else would she lie? I checked on this guy Kincade. There’s no such person. There’s no Global Model Enterprises.”
Biting down on her lower lip, she swung her legs to the floor, stood, crossed to the kitchen counter, opened the file folder, and pulled out the pink message paper. “Someone with an alibi is lying,” she read aloud. Then she picked up the newspaper article and took it to John.
She watched his face as he read. He looked up to stare solemnly into her eyes.
“I’ll meet you downstairs in half an hour,” she said.
They took Highway 101 to Novato and reached the address on the clipping at 5:45 pm. 433 Arbor was a brick duplex surrounded by concrete and colored gravel. On a narrow strip of grass that lined the driveway, a pretty young woman in a bikini lay on a beach towel, reading.
“This is the unexciting part of investigating,” John said, eyeing the woman. “The interview.”
Regina’s smile seemed weak, unamused. They left the car and walked up the driveway to the woman, who had put down her book to watch their approach.
“Hi,” John said.
“Hi.”
“My name is John Davie and this is Regina Van Raven. Do you live here?”
She nodded, her hand shading her eyes. “Beverly.”
“Beverly, we’re private investigators from San Francisco. Was Carmenita Flores your roommate?”
“That’s right.”
“Mind if we ask a few questions?”
“I guess not.” She gestured for him to step left.
He shifted until his shadow fell across her face. “We read about Ms. Flores’s murder in the newspaper and we wondered if there might be a connection between her death and several other crimes committed recently in the city. Did your roommate receive any warnings? Was anyone harassing her? Did she say anything to you that would indicate she felt she was in danger?”
“Not really. Carm was quiet. Kept her thoughts to herself. I met her after her little girl died, and she was bitter—y’know, sort of hard.”
“What happened to her daughter?”
“Defective heart. She was only two when she died. That was eight months ago.”
“Did Carmenita date or have a steady guy?”
The woman shook her head. “No, not that I knew of. She was very pretty, but just didn’t seem interested.” She thought for a moment. “I told the police there was one peculiar thing. A few days before she was killed, I’d picked up the extension, not knowing she was using the phone. Anyway, this guy says ‘now that you’re off the hook, don’t think you can cross me.’”
“Off the hook?”
“I think she’d been in trouble at some point in her life.”
“You’re sure it was a man?”
“Well, I thought so at the time. The voice was very deep, raspy sounding.”
CHAPTER 27
John and Regina entered the lobby of the Meadowvale Inn at 6:30 P.M. and made their way to the registration desk. A plaque on the counter read, Sorry, No Vacancy.
“Is that for real?” Pointing at the sign, John asked the young woman behind the counter whose name tag read Rachel. She was probably the one he had spoken to on the phone when he’d called impersonating Judge Corde.
“Yes, sir. Unless you have a reservation, we’re booked. The Napa Valley Chateau may have accommodations.”
“We had our heart set on staying here. The Cordes rave about this place.”
“Judge Corde?”
“That’s right. They said they were coming sometime in June, but for the life of me I can’t remember which weekend.”
“You’ve missed them, I’m afraid. He and Mrs. Corde were here last week.”
“It’s just as well. You see, we’ve just come from that little chapel down the road and we don’t really relish company,” John took Regina’s hand. “But if there’s no room available ...”
Rachel’s large brown eyes looked apologetic. The phone at her elbow buzzed. She excused herself and answered. A moment later she was smiling at them as she slid a guest registration form across to John. She hung up. “Your luck is changing. That was a last-minute cancellation.”
Ten minutes later they were in room 142. Regina put her handbag on the dresser and turned to survey the charming room with its French country decor, its terrace, fireplace, and queen-size bed.
She noticed John’s gaze had swept the room to end up where hers had—on the only bed.
“Hungry yet?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“Before we eat, we should see Amelia’s parents.”
On the drive to Napa they had devised what they hoped was a plausible excuse to talk to the Travises. Regina lifted the phone directory, sat on the edge of the bed, and opened it to the Ts.
While she scanned the directory, John put on a dark red necktie. Over his ice blue shirt and charcoal gray slacks, he slipped on a gray sport coat.
She tapped the book. “They’re in here. Five-ninety-nine Winecastle Court, number five. Amelia mentioned a retirement complex.”
“Ready?” he asked.
“Could you give me a minute?”
“Take as long as you like. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
She waited until he left, then she rose and crossed the room to the French doors. Leaning against the frame, looking out over the green, landscaped golf course, she watched the sun’s rosy glow shimmer through the tall trees, like a black on red filigree design.
They hadn’t discussed the room arrangements beforehand. The decision, as it turned out, had been made for them. She couldn’t blame John. Besides, she told herself, sharing a room didn’t mean they had to sleep together or anything like that. Oh good god, Pollyanna, who are you trying to kid?
Minutes later she entered the lobby to find John standing at the grand piano, one hand in his pants pocket and the other hand softly tinkering with the keys.
The parking valet brought the station wagon around. Regina got behind the wheel and pulled away.
They headed west into the setting sun. Ten minutes later they reached Winecastle Court. The retirement complex was nothing more than a trailer park. The Travises single wide mobile home sat five in from the dusty highway.
A skeletal woman dressed in hot pink with hair dyed a harsh, unnatural black, answered the door. Her dark eyes glared out of sunken sockets.
“Mrs. Travis?” Regina asked. “My name is Francie Simpson. Mr. Davidson and I are with the public relations department at KSCO TV. We’re working up a biographical profile
for the station on your daughter Amelia.”
“My heavens, Amelia mentioned KSCO when we saw her last. Come in. Don’t stay out there baking in the sun. Come in.”
“Who is it, Wanda?” a voice called out from inside the trailer.
“It’s some folks from the TV station Amelia’s going to work for, y’know, that ‘City Gallery’ show.”
John and Regina exchanged glances as they stepped in.
In the tiny living room, after introductions were made and they were seated, Regina asked, “Does Amelia come to Napa often to visit?”
“Not that often. Only when the lord and master deems fit to release her,” the woman replied with a sarcastic edge.
“You mean Judge Corde?”
“Yeah, his honor, his majesty, his—”
“Now, Wanda ...” Mr. Travis warned. To Regina and John, he asked, “Do you know her husband?”
“We’ve met,” Regina said.
“Amelia met him at the Miss Classic pageant. He was a contest judge.” The woman chuckled. “It seems he’s always a judge of one sort or another.”
“He’s got plenty of money. Old San Francisco money,” Mr. Travis interjected, clearly impressed. “Money’s kinda important to our Amelia. She likes nice things. I wasn’t surprised when she drove up last Saturday morning in that old Rolls.”
“Rolls? Like in Rolls-Royce?” John leaned forward.
“Yes sir,” Mr. Travis said.
“She came alone?”
“Yeah, but she couldn’t stay long. The judge had a golf date and she had an appointment to meet with someone from the TV station. Wanda, what was that man’s name?”
“Well, let’s see now ...”
“Kincade?” Regina prompted.
“No, not Kincade,” Wanda rolled her eyes upward, thinking. “It was something to do with water. Spring? Pond? Nooo. Lake, that’s it. Rolan Lake, the producer of the show.”
Regina felt a jolting shock.
“She drove back to the city to meet him?” John asked.
“Heavens, no. They met for lunch up the road here at that new resort. The Napa Valley Chateau.”
“She’ll get that job,” Mr. Travis said. “When our Amelia sets her mind to something, it’s done. She could’ve been a motion picture star, but the damn movie studio folded up. Television’s where it’s at today. A TV personality isn’t anything to be ashamed of.”
Regina risked a glance at John. He was watching her, an unreadable expression on his face.
Regina stood. John followed. “Our time is limited today, but may we contact you soon for an in-depth interview?”
“Of course. No one knows a person better’n her parents,” Wanda Travis said. “Say, we got plenty of photos of Amelia, if you—”
“We’ll be in touch,” Regina said, going out the door with John.
Amelia paced the master bedroom, sipping straight vodka and smoking one long, slim cigarette after another. She lifted the rock glass to her lips and tilted her head back. A last drop fell on her tongue. “Shit.”
She debated going downstairs for another shot of vodka. But she knew she would just gulp it down like the last one, and if Matthew found her drunk in the afternoon, just hours before their dinner party for ten, he would sure as hell wonder about it. What could she say? Matthew darling. I’ve had a shock. I’ve just been screwed out of all the money I stole from you. Money that took me eighteen miserable years to nickel and dime from you. Money that was rightfully mine. Money I worked for, on my back, in a thousand one-minute performances.
God, she needed that drink. Desperately her mind whirled, played, rewound, like a malfunctioning cassette, revealing snatches of information — Fletcher ... Global Model Enterprises ... Joint Business Account. Gone. All gone. How could she have been so trusting? So stupid? But was it really her fault? Could she have prevented it somehow? Fletcher had shown her his check, a cashier’s check, for the matching money. Her eighty thousand and his eighty thousand —one hundred and sixty thousand dollars commingled to make up the initial operating capital for Global Model Enterprises. She had insisted on the joint account rather than an escrow account as he had suggested. But he had won out in the matter of the single signature disbursement, making it possible for either party to draw funds from the account; making it possible for either to close out the account. But only one party had.
It was a nightmare. She would wake up and discover none of this had really happened. It had to be a nightmare or some ridiculous mistake. Because if it was true then what would become of her? Where would she be? She was forty. She didn’t have another nineteen years to amass her freedom funds. She would either have to leave Matthew and chance it on her own —without all the wonderful things she loved—or she would have to stay with him, allowing him to own her like one of his collectibles; to use her like a common whore. Or she would have to—no, don’t think about it now.
She had to have another drink. To hell with Matthew.
She hurried down the stairs, her white silk wrapper flying out behind her, and rushed into the dining room. The sight of the table, already set with their best bone china, crystal, sterling flatware, and pink tulip floral runner, twisted at her insides. How was she ever going to get through this night? How could she possibly entertain guests without screaming or throwing whatever came into her hands?
At a liquor cart she quickly poured vodka into her glass. She took a long gulp, refilled the glass, then hurried back upstairs. At the bedroom doorway she heard the front door open, then close soundly. Matthew’s voice called out.
She froze, not breathing. Her hand gripped his maroon smoking jacket hanging on the back of the door.
“Amelia, where are you? If you’re in the bedroom, stay there.” He chuckled lightly. “I’m coming up.”
She growled deep in her throat, her fingers crushing the soft velvet of the jacket. She wanted to weep, to wail, to kill.
They drove to the Napa Valley Chateau. A valet took the car and they went inside, crossed the lobby, entered a cocktail lounge, and sat at a table just inside the room. The Napa Valley Chateau was small compared to the Meadowvale Inn. John seemed pleased about that. He ordered two drinks, paid for them, then stood.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” he said, and left the lounge.
Regina watched him cross to the registration desk. A young man in his early twenties looked up with an eager smile. John spoke. The desk clerk responded with a shake of his head. John reached into his pocket and brought out his wallet. The clerk stared at it, shook his head again, only this time there was little conviction in the gesture. John extracted several bills, laid them flat on the counter, and, with his hand over the money, pushed them toward the clerk. Regina sipped her wine nervously. Then, just like in all the detective movies she’d seen, the money changed hands. The clerk was talking, his mouth moving rapidly, his eyes darting about furtively.
“I’ll be damned,” Regina said under her breath.
A few minutes later John joined her. Without sitting down, he lifted his Tanqueray and tonic and neatly tossed it back. “Ready?”
Regina quickly finished her white wine and stood.
In the car on the drive back to the inn, John said, “It was no lunch. They checked in around noon under the name of Williams. No luggage. Cash transaction. Checked out at five-thirty. Left in separate cars.”
“How do we know it was Amelia and Nolan?”
“I had only to mention the Rolls and he was off and running. He described both of them. And if that’s not enough, the man had a gold money clip with the initials N.A.L.”
Nolan Alan Lake. Regina had been with Donna the day she’d bought the money clip for Nolan.
So Nolan and Amelia are having an affair, Regina thought dismally. While Donna lies suffering in the hospital, her husband is cheating with the woman who is making moves to take her job. Her job and her husband. Christ.
“I’m sorry,” John said, stroking her arm. “I know how much you care about Do
nna.”
She nodded. She didn’t want to think or talk about it now. “And I’m sorry that the reason we came here turned out to be a bust. Amelia didn’t meet Kincade. She didn’t sneak into the city. We’re right back where we started. Worse, she now has a solid alibi.”
They drove the rest of the way to the inn with less than ten words passing between them.
From her car Corinne watched the delivery boy from Pong’s press a buzzer in the vestibule of John’s apartment house. A moment later he disappeared inside. She left the car and rapidly made her way into the building. In the vestibule, with her long dark coat tight around her, the hood that covered her head pulled across the side of her face, she glanced through the two long panes into the wide hallway. It was empty.
The air in the small space was permeated with the smell of Chinese food. The pungent odor made her already queasy stomach knot up. When she saw the boy coming back toward the door, she shifted and stood facing the row of mailboxes.
He came through the door quickly. Corinne caught it before it could close, then moved through casually. The boy was out of the building without a second glance at her.
At the door of 1B she tapped lightly, waited, then tapped again.
John was out, she reasoned. It was early, barely nine o’clock. She wondered if she should wait or come back later. The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs prompted her to make a decision. She took hold of the knob and twisted. It turned and the door opened. She slipped inside.
In the lobby, John stopped to read the menu at the door of the Oak Room. “I’m starving. What do you say we drown our disappointment in a bottle or two of Pinot Noir along with a rack of lamb or chateaubriand?”
“I’d like to change clothes first.” She ran her hands over her denim skirt and jacket.
“You look fine.”
‘You look fine, I’m underdressed for Chateaubriand. Why don’t I meet you in the bar in thirty minutes?”
“You don’t need any help with zippers or hooks?” he asked with a straight face.
Night Hunter Page 26
