“Besides, he’s kind of a cute jackass.”
Miranda’s brows shot up. She thought of the way O’Toole had eyed Ralston’s backside earlier. Was there something going on here? On the other hand, if there was, she didn’t really want to know about it.
“Plus I have family here,” Ralston continued. “My parents died when I was little and my grandparents took care of me. They’re in assisted living now and I visit them all the time. If it weren’t for me, they wouldn’t have anyone to look after them.”
Miranda was quiet. Ralston was a really good person as well as a good cop. And her tender story brought an old ache to her heart for the normal family life that she’d never had. Her father had abandoned her when she was little. Her mother was a cold shrew, her first husband beat her and stole her child. But things were better now. A lot better. All thanks to Parker.
By the time they pulled past the security guards and into the Costa Rica Hills country club, her anger at Parker had completely evaporated.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Blythe Star’s coral two-story estate had an eerie glow under the outdoor lamps that lit it up under the desert sky. Or maybe it just seemed that way because they were about to arrest a killer.
Miranda got out of Ralston’s car and watched O’Toole, Parker, and three officers march up to the door. She wondered if the extra police were overkill. It wasn’t as if they needed a swat team or anything.
On the other hand, some women could be pretty vicious. She’d tangled with a few. Didn’t matter. The surge of adrenaline she felt at the prospect of wrapping up their first case overshadowed everything, however this went down.
O’Toole pounded on the door. “Metro police,” he said loudly.
No answer.
He pounded again. “We need you to open the door. We need to speak to Ms. Star.”
After what felt like a half hour, the door opened and the woman named Hildie appeared. “What in the world is going on?”
She had a robe wrapped tightly around her thin body. Instead of being pulled back, her graying hair hung to her shoulders. Her face looked more drawn and wrinkled than it had yesterday. Her expression said she was outraged at being disturbed so late.
“Ma’am, I’m Sergeant O’Toole of the Las Vegas Police. We need to speak to Ms. Star.”
“At this hour?”
“It’s regarding the death of her sister.”
“Ms. Star has been very distraught over that. Right now, she’s getting some much needed sleep. Can’t you come back in the morning?”
“I’m afraid this can’t wait. May we come in?”
The woman glared at him, then at the other officers. But realizing things would only get worse if she refused, she opened the door. “You can wait in the east room.”
Miranda followed the woman as she led everyone across the marble floor, past a fountain that had goldfish swimming in it, through two marble columns and down a short hall to a room on the left.
“Wait here and I’ll see if Ms. Star will receive you.” She turned and walked stiffly away.
A bulldog couldn’t have been more loyal or protective of her master, though Hildie made a pretty skinny pug.
Miranda took a seat on an overstuffed red velvet couch that faced a huge fireplace built into a square white brick column in the middle of the room. Now what would you need a fireplace in the desert for? Especially when the A/C was set to a temperature that gave her goose bumps, despite the cruel heat outside.
Ralston took a seat on a Queen Anne’s chair across the white carpet. All the men stood, pacing or shifting their weight from foot to foot. Ralston’s shoe began to bounce up and down. Miranda resisted the urge to tap her foot on the thick carpet.
“Star must be a sound sleeper,” she said at last, attempting to break the tension.
No one responded. But Parker gave her a look that said he feared this wasn’t going to go well. She had a feeling he was right.
After an eternity, they heard the plop-plop of Hildie’s bedroom slippers approaching from the hall. She was moving fast.
She rushed into the room. “I don’t know what’s happened. I can’t find Ms. Star anywhere.”
Skipped, Miranda thought, wanting to cuss.
“What do you mean?” O’Toole demanded.
“She’s not in her room or the terrace or the downstairs kitchen. I—I don’t know where she is.”
O’Toole pointed at one of the officers, then at Hildie. “Stay with her. The rest of you, search the house.”
“You can’t do that,” the woman protested. “It’s an invasion of privacy.”
O’Toole’s face went hard with more irritation than Miranda had ever seen on it. “I happen to have an arrest warrant for Ms. Star, ma’am, and it appears she’s now a fugitive. So yes, we damn well can search the house.”
“Oh, my God.” Hildie seemed about to faint as she sank onto the couch, a hand to her mouth in horror. But she stopped protesting.
As Miranda hurried out of the room with O’Toole and Parker, she heard the woman mutter, “This can’t be happening. This just can’t be happening.”
###
Back in the wide, marble-floored foyer with the goldfish pond fountain, Miranda took stock of the place. The officers were going room to room until reinforcements arrived. There were so many rooms and only three officers right now. And she had thought they were overkill just a little while ago.
She turned to Parker. “You want to take the west side while I take the east?”
He hesitated a moment, his expression dark and unreadable, and she wondered if he were questioning that she’d taken charge—which she was supposed to do if they were still following the original plan.
But at last he nodded. “Good plan.”
While O’Toole headed for the back, Parker studied her another moment again hesitating, as if he were about to say something. Then he simply turned and strode off down the hall.
Feeling a sudden sense of loss, Miranda tromped off in the opposite direction.
Officers were darting in and out of the first floor hall by the time she reached it. Their faces told her they were having no luck finding the suspect and Miranda doubted she would either.
If Blythe Star’s trusted assistant couldn’t find the woman, she probably wasn’t in the house. No doubt Sean Scott had gotten to Blythe after rehearsal and told her the authorities were on to them. The pair might have taken off. They could be in Tucson by now. Hell, if they hopped a plane, they could be on their way to Indonesia.
She was passing the cops who were slowly making their way toward the end of the hall and what looked like a kitchen when she spotted a cherry staircase with a crimson runner along the wall. She took it—two stairs at a time—to the second floor.
It was quiet up here, more open, with the night sky pouring through massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Miranda went through the rooms one by one. Why did wealthy folk need so many of them? Guest rooms, bathrooms, a kitchenette in rosy marble with a lounging area done in pastel blue.
Another bathroom, this one lined with tiny mirrors so you could check out every part of yourself and make sure it was up to par. Two exercise and dance rooms filled with all the latest, fanciest equipment, including colorful Pilates balls and a rack of pastel dumbbells. The kind the guys back at the Agency called sissy weights.
These were also lined with mirrors and ballet bars. The air reeked of self-absorption. The lady was definitely a narcissist. But that must have been in her genes.
At last Miranda came to what must have been the master bedroom. Two words struck her immediately. Big and pink.
The walls were white with pink trim. The large windows were covered with pink curtains decked with little white hearts. The matching furniture was white with pink trim. A white bear skin rug stretched across the cherry wood floor. In the middle of the room sat a huge heart-shaped bed, piled high with pink-and-white throw pillows. A silky pink comforter stretched across the bed and beneath the silk, a
white fur dust ruffle encircled the shape. Ermine?
And yet the most striking feature of the room was that the white walls were covered not with mirrors this time, but with photo after photo of Ambrosia Dawn.
Not Abigail Johnson. Not vacation trips or holidays or family time. It was all Ambrosia Dawn, the performer. The diva. The star. What must have been that high school performance Blythe had mentioned. The early years of her career. When she was in her heyday. The few movies she’d been in. Every tour she’d ever been on.
Can you spell…obsession?
But still, there was no sign of Blythe here. The bed had been turned down, revealing white satin sheets with pink hearts, but it didn’t look like it had been touched.
Miranda stepped over to the closet. The door was ajar. She peeked inside. A huge walk-in, twice as big as the one Parker had given her back home. It was hard to tell with the massive wardrobe, but it didn’t look like there had been any hurried packing done.
She moved to the bathroom. Another large room with a pink sunken tub and lots of mirrors. There was a towel on the floor. Miranda crouched down to feel it. Still damp. The shower looked like it has been recently used.
Miranda’s pulse kicked up. If Blythe had bolted she couldn’t have gotten far. Time to wrap this search up and start hunting outside. She only had one more room left. Procedure compelled her to check it out.
Back in the hall, the faint odor of chlorine caught her attention. She headed for the opaque glass double doors that must have been eight feet tall. She wrapped her hand around her shirttail to preserve any fingerprints, pulled it open, and stepped into the room.
But it wasn’t a room. It was an indoor pool.
Nearly Olympic size, as far as she could tell in the dim light. But it wasn’t square or oval. Not exactly kidney-shaped either. It curved this way and that around muted mosaic tile decked with lounge furniture and potted palms and columns. The surrounding walls were tall windows, stretching into a curved dome, while crystal blue water gurgled over low lights that echoed the twinkling stars overhead. The whole place was silent except for the sound of a maintenance engine humming quietly.
A pink-and-white beach ball floated idly by. Miranda stood watching it for a moment, breathing in the moist air. Then something caught her eye at the far end of the room. She stepped around the chaises and wrought iron tables, making her way to the back.
As she approached, she could make out a long white shelf that ran along the far wall like a mantelpiece without a fireplace. Suspended about five feet from the floor, it held half a dozen antique Chinese vases symmetrically arranged.
But the one that should have been on the end was missing.
She made her way around the last curve of the pool to the shelf. Before she got there she stopped short. At her feet lay shattered porcelain pieces. But what make her skin tingle was the blood spatter on the walls and floor tiles.
And the bloody footprints.
She dared to peek over the edge of the pool. A pumping system was making gentle waves in the blue water under the low light. She was about to turn away.
Then she saw it.
Way down on the bottom. A form. Long, tan limbs. A naked backside. Flowing blond hair. It was her.
Still alive?
Without hesitation, Miranda kicked off her shoes, stripped off her jacket and dove in.
Down she went, butterflying her way as fast as she could to the bottom. When she got there, she tried to slip her hands under the woman’s arms but her skin was slippery and her long silky hair washed over Miranda’s face.
She pushed it away and twisted it into a knot as best she could. This was taking too long, but she didn’t have much choice. She worked her fingers under the armpits once more. She almost had her when the knot came loose and the fine hair floated over her cheeks and eyes once more.
She wanted to grunt aloud, but she was holding her breath—something she couldn’t do much longer. Grasping the hair with both hands, she spun it into a ponytail and put it between her lips. Trying to spit out the water without losing the hair, she gave one more determined shove and got the woman up.
Up, up she swam. God, she was heavy. Up, up. Just a little farther.
When she didn’t think she could hold her breath another second, her head broke through the surface. Gasping, she opened her mouth, spat out the hair, and drank in air. Blythe’s soaking ponytail was now plastered along her neck and breasts.
Miranda swam as hard as she could. At last she made the short distance to the edge of the pool and dragged both herself and the woman out of the water.
She positioned her body, cleared her airway, pressed hard against her chest, trying to revive her. But she’d already seen the gash along her throat and the glassy stare of her eyes. She knew it was useless.
She was gone.
Miranda got to her feet, not noticing she was shaking from head to foot. She started for the door. “Parker,” she shouted. “O’Toole.”
They were downstairs. No way they could hear her. She fumbled in her wet pockets and found her cell phone. Thank God it was waterproof.
Parker answered on the first ring. “What is it?”
“I found her. In the pool room. Far end of the second floor. She’s dead.”
“We’re there.”
Just as he disconnected she heard a scream in the doorway. She turned to see Hildie, followed by the officer who was supposed to be guarding her. “I couldn’t keep her downstairs, Ms. Steele. She insisted on coming up here.”
The woman gave Miranda a crazed glare. “What have to you done to her? What have you done?”
Instinctively, Miranda’s hands shot up and she went into a defense position, soaking hair and clothes and all, but the officer grabbed Hildie before the woman could reach her. “Calm down, lady.”
“How did you know Blythe was up here?” Miranda demanded of the woman.
Her face went white. “I just had a thought. She often goes for a swim late at night.”
“Did you kill her?”
“What? How dare you—”
“What’s going on in here?” O’Toole stepped through the door with Parker at his side.
Ralston and the other officers appeared in the doorway behind them.
Immediately Parker rushed to Miranda’s side.
For once, she wanted him to hold her, but she knew he wouldn’t in front of the men. “I was searching room to room on this floor,” she explained. “I came in here last. I found her on the bottom of the pool. I tried to save her, but it was too late.”
O’Toole stepped around the body and peered down at the lifeless form.
Parker slipped his arm around Miranda’s wet frame. Man, that felt good. “Are you all right?” he whispered in her ear.
She nodded and touched his hand. It felt warm and reassuring.
“Dammit.” O’Toole made a sound like a mad dog’s growl. Or maybe a cat in heat. He shot a finger at his detective. “Ralston, go pick up that bodyguard.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter Thirty
O’Toole called in the ME and the CSIs. An hour later, the whole area around the pool was swarming with technicians. Outside officers were checking the yard and talking to neighbors, and here Dr. Eaton was crouched beside the body, completing his preliminary examination.
With a weary movement, he rose but couldn’t quite tear his eyes from her.
“Well?” O’Toole asked.
“She was dead when she got into the pool. There was no water in her lungs.”
“Pretty clear the killer would have to slash her first.”
The doctor nodded. “There are no defense wounds. She was attacked from the front. The killer hit both the jugular vein and the carotid artery. She would have been dead within sixty seconds.”
No wonder there was so much blood spatter. “So the killer was quick,” Miranda said. “Took her by surprise.”
Carefully, Parker stepped to the spot where the shards of the vase had lain b
efore the CSIs bagged and tagged them. He studied the empty spot on the shelf. “This particular murder weapon indicates it was a spontaneous act. Perhaps an act of passion.”
Miranda’s gaze followed his and she nodded. “Like maybe they had a fight?”
“Yes,” he said.
O’Toole put a hand on his hip. “You think Blythe fought with…Scott?”
Miranda considered that. “Maybe he came to see her after the rehearsal. To tell her what I’d said to him when I interviewed him.”
O’Toole’s mouth went back and forth. “The housekeeper didn’t let anyone in. She claims the vic told her to go to bed as soon as she got in.”
“And she says she did.” Parker had spoken to Hildie briefly before the others arrived and had calmed her down. He was good at that.
Miranda took a step toward the pool, envisioning the scene. “So maybe Scott says, ‘baby, the jig is up. We’ve got to leave town.’ ”
Parker moved closer to the shelf, as if he were putting himself in the killer’s position. “Or perhaps he told her he was leaving town.”
“And so she gets upset, yells at him, he yells back, flies into a blinding rage.” Miranda stepped between Parker and the shelf. “But he takes a slug at her or just gestures and his hand hits the lamp.” She mimicked the move.
“Or he grabs the vase in anger and hurls it to the floor.” Parker acted out his version.
“Either way, the vase falls and shatters. Scott stares down at the shards and gets an idea. He’s still in a frenzy, so he picks up a piece and slashes out at her.”
O’Toole scratched his chin. “Could have played like that.”
“Blythe falls to the ground,” Miranda continued, pointing to the area where it might have happened. “Scott rolls her over into the water, hoping it’ll wash away some of the evidence.”
“Or she falls into the pool from the force of the attack.” Parker frowned. “What about the pottery shard? We didn’t find a bloody piece.”
O’Toole crouched down and studied the tiles. “The murder weapon would be nice to have.”
All Eyes on Me (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 1) Page 14
