Her muscles aching, struggling to keep her breathing silent, Miranda followed his gaze. And felt the blood chill in her veins. She squinted into the dim light and recognized the terrace she’d sat on with Parker a few days ago.
This was Blythe Star’s house. The beautiful, ambitious, obsessed woman who was now dead.
She thought of the sickening smell of chlorine. The sight of the woman’s body when she’d spotted it under water in the pool. The weight of death as she pulled her out. The flat expression on her lifeless face.
Wait. Her gaze moved to the left. A jutting space with a lot of windows and reinforcement below it. Wasn’t the indoor pool right there? At that end of the house? Recalling the layout, she was almost sure of it.
She watched Forest turn toward the house. He followed a curving walkway that led to a set of stone stairs she hadn’t noticed until now. They led to a door that had to open onto the indoor pool.
He reached them now and hurried up them.
What was he doing? Returning to the scene of the crime? That was clichéd even for an Elvis impersonator. But no, he didn’t go inside. He came to a halt near the top of the stairs.
The undergirding beneath the pool had to be steel and concrete to hold the weight. But decorative rafters had been added on the exterior to make it look as if crisscrossing columns held it up. And in that crisscross design were a lot of little cubbyholes.
Bracing himself on the railing, Forest extended an arm and reached into one of them. He tugged for a moment as if to jiggle loose what he was after. If only she hadn’t left O’Toole’s binoculars in the car. Finally Forest withdrew his arm and tucked something into his pocket.
Too late for binoculars now. Glancing around, with a fearful motion Forest turned and began to descend the steps.
Quickly Miranda ducked down behind the bush again. She listened hard for the sound of his footsteps. After a moment, she heard them. Soft on the walkway, almost too quiet to hear, but growing louder. He was getting close.
She held her breath as he came near her hiding place. Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest, she wasn’t sure she could hear him anymore. Had he stopped? Had he seen her?
She waited. Then the rhythm started up again, remained steady. Step, step, step. After an eternity passed, the footsteps grew faint.
When she couldn’t hear them anymore, she counted to ten and dared to raise her head. He was gone. Damn.
She peered down the path where he’d come, assuming he’d go back the same way. Nothing. She turned and looked the other way. She squinted hard.
There. Hurrying down the sidewalk past more big homes. She was still a little disoriented in the dark, but that had to be the way back to his house. That made sense. Now that his nightly chores were complete, he was heading home.
Once more she scooted along behind the bushes. Her muscles were screaming by now and her breath was ragged. She could barely keep up. Her target moved faster now. He was getting farther and farther away. Just when she thought she’d fallen too far behind, Forest ducked between another set of houses.
She got up, hurried over to the sidewalk and ran the rest of the way.
# # #
By the time she reached the end of the walk and was peering into the gangway between the houses, she’d lost him again.
All she saw before her was more landscaping buried in darkness. Gritting her teeth, she plowed her way through it. At least she was upright now. But she feared Forest might have seen her. Might be hiding in here. Might jump her from one of the bushes she passed.
She was getting paranoid, she thought. Besides, she could handle him. Elvis might be into Kung Fu Fighting, but she had moves that could top that.
But he didn’t jump out at her. She reached the front of the houses and found herself staring across two stone-and-cactus covered yards and into the next street in the neighborhood.
Forest was crossing it.
The shadows cast by a clump of three palm trees in the middle of the yard hid her. If she could get to it, she’d be closer, but she couldn’t risk the noise of the gravel underfoot attracting his attention.
She didn’t have to.
As soon as Forest was across the street, he headed down the walk and up the drive of another home. That one was his, Miranda thought, recognizing the road as she made out the form of mishmash of shapes under the pale house lamps. The inside lights were off now and the darkness hid everything but silhouettes.
She squinted at the shadowy figure of Forest, hoping she wouldn’t lose him again. But wouldn’t he just go straight to the front door and let himself in? No. He turned and plodded toward the garage. After a minute, he vanished around the far corner.
Back door entrance? Must be trying not to be seen by the neighbors.
One thing she was sure of. He knew his way around his neighborhood. And he’d gone this route before. Possibly just last night.
She took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows.
Hoping he wouldn’t come back around that corner and spot her, she walked at a casual, I’m-just-strolling-through-the-neighborhood pace, crossed the street, went up the drive and took the path around the garage.
When she got to the back of the house, Forest had disappeared again. But a light came on on the first floor, confirming he’d gone inside. Through the kitchen, if she recalled the layout correctly. She studied the path from the door to the garage. Just the way he must have carried his wife’s body out before stuffing her in the truck of a car and heading for I-15 to dump her.
And to carve out her eye.
Heart pounding Miranda huddled down behind another row of sticky shrubs and stared at the sliding glass doors. The lights were on but she couldn’t see anyone. She should follow Forest in there. Confront him. If only O’Toole had come with her. If only she had her Berretta on her. Damn.
She reached into her pocket. Making sure her phone was on silent, she turned it back on. Five missed calls from Parker. Last one was an hour ago. He could be on his way here. She’d be glad for him to show up now, even though he’d probably kill her.
Once more, she studied the door. Weigh the risks, Parker had said. If she snuck into that house, Forest might do the job for him before he got to her. But she’d been chasing Elvis through the yards for more than thirty minutes. Back-up would be here soon. Plus there was nothing like the element of surprise to get a confession.
Deciding the risk was worth it, she stepped out of the bushes and headed for the kitchen door.
Chapter Forty
Five hours late.
Parker paced back and forth in the suite, the fury of Hell flaming in his chest. How could she be so irresponsible? So thoughtless? So reckless?
And why didn’t she answer her damn phone?
He knew the reasons. And he had a good idea where she was, though he’d lost her after she headed into another subdivision after she’d been to the police station and to Costa Rica Hills. He stomped to the window and stared out at the night sky, fighting back his anger.
He could say she was headstrong, recalcitrant, insubordinate. He could also call her unrelenting and persistent and passionate. The very traits that had made him fall in love with her.
That didn’t mean he was any less furious with her.
Tie up some loose ends. He hadn’t believed it when she’d said it but he’d indulged her. So it was his own fault she was out there on her own.
He sank into a chair and ran a hand through his hair. Since she’d been gone, he’d had a chance to think through the evidence of the case. The tea, the temper fits at rehearsals, the set up with the melon baller. He’d come to the same conclusion Miranda obviously had.
Sean Scott was a long shot. The only other suspect that made sense was the husband. Cameron Forest.
He stared at his cell. He’d given up calling when it had gone to voice mail five times and had hounded the police station instead. Ralston was off duty and no one knew where Sid was. Miranda had to be with the sergeant. He had to hope for that. If
she had gone after a killer entirely alone…
He dialed Sid’s number, which he hadn’t answered on the previous three calls.
At last, he picked up. “Hello, Parker,” he said, resignation in his voice.
Parker didn’t bother with a greeting. “Where’s Miranda, Sid?” he demanded.
“Take it easy, Parker. I think she’s okay.”
“You think she’s okay? Where the hell are you?”
“Costa Rica Hills. I’m out front of Ambrosia Dawn’s place. We tailed Forest to a party. He came home some time ago but had his driver let him out and walked the rest of the way. Miranda took off after him.”
Parker’s blood froze in his veins. “What do you mean? Where is she?”
“I’m not sure but I saw lights go on in the house a few minutes ago.”
Rage and worry pounded in his guts. “Sid O’Toole, if anything happens to my wife, I’ll have your badge. After I tear off your limbs and stuff them down your throat.”
“Take it easy, Parker. I’ve got back-up coming. They should be here any minute.”
Parker ground his teeth. “They had better. I’m on my way.”
He snapped off his phone and raced out the door. He’d lost his first love when he was hardly a man. He’d lost his first wife to ovarian cancer. He’d be damned if he’d lose Miranda.
But even as he ran for the elevator, his chest felt as if it were caving under an avalanche of heavy rock. If Miranda were in danger in that house, if she was facing a crazed killer who would do anything to avoid prison, it would take far too long for him to get there.
Chapter Forty-One
As quietly as she could, Miranda tugged on the handle of the glass door at the back of Ambrosia Dawn’s house. Relief washed over her when it slid back on its rollers. She stepped onto the terrazzo tile, silently closed the door behind her and looked around.
As she’d expected, she was in the kitchen. The place where Ambrosia Dawn drank her last cup of tea.
She tiptoed past the gleaming appliances and countertops and the unfinished side room and into a long hallway.
Here the floor became hardwood and she had to move carefully so that her sneakers wouldn’t make a noise. Along one eggshell-painted wall stretched a long row of small photos. Ambrosia Dawn on stage during this tour or that. On the other wall hung a long tangle of some sort of filigree artwork.
No sign of Forest.
She kept going until she reached a cream-colored settee with gold striped pillows. A crystal chandelier glittered overhead to light the space. Here the hall forked in two directions.
To the right she decided, letting instinct take over. More pictures. A side table with a vase of flowers. Landscapes on the walls here. Guess it was too crass to hang your own photo on every space, even for this woman. She took a few more steps and grinned.
Lookie here. A staircase. Different from the one the house manager had led her up.
Miranda stood a long moment staring up it. It had to lead to the bedrooms. Forest probably had gone up to bed. He’d had a busy night. She’d just go tuck him in.
She put her foot on the first step. Sure would be nice to have a weapon in her hand when she surprised him.
A light switched on to her right.
Tensing, she swung her head toward it. A few feet away on the opposite side of a hall stood an archway. Holding her breath, she hesitated on the step and gaped at the opening. As she waited, listening to her heart pound in her chest, a low sob echoed from the room.
She knew that sound.
Carefully she removed her foot and crept across the floor. As she went the sobs grew louder, more heart wrenching.
She took a deep breath and dared to peek into the room.
It was a huge, domed space with another chandelier overhead. A tall fireplace against the far wall, potted ferns scattered about, some sort of Aztec art covering the wall opposite the fireplace. A wide floor-to-ceiling window behind the sitting arrangement completed the décor.
And there on a lime green sofa of soft leather a few feet away from the window sat Cameron Forest, elbows on his knees, ring laden fingers dug into his thick black pompadour, weeping.
He’d draped his blazer over the arm of the couch and his electric blue satin shirt shimmered as his shoulders shook with grief and his gold chains dangled over his lap.
His eyes were open, staring. She followed his gaze. On the polished mahogany coffee table before him lay two objects.
A large piece of broken pottery. And a gun.
The ceramic piece curved in the shape of the vases she’d seen on that shelf near Blythe Star’s pool last night. Flecks of gold and blue on the underside. Pure white on the inside. And along its sharp white edge, a deep red bloodstain.
The gun was a revolver, Miranda thought, eyes now fixed on it. Looked like a .357. Loaded? She had to assume so. What was he planning to do with it? Use it on himself? Or had he heard her come in and was waiting for her? Didn’t look like it.
Could she get to that gun? Was Forest that distracted? She had to try.
Not daring to breathe, she stepped into the room and glided silently toward him. He didn’t move except for his broad, bobbing shoulders. Suddenly her heart broke for him. Those tears were real. Somehow she still believed that. He’d had a weird love-hate relationship with Ambrosia. Maybe he was really sorry for what he’d done. Maybe a good lawyer could use that sorrow to get him less time.
What was she thinking? He was a killer and she had to bring him in. She was almost to the end of the couch now. She took another step and the floor creaked.
Forest lifted his head and spun around, lips parted in shock. He glared at her through moist, long-lashed eyes. “Ms. Steele. How did you get in here?”
She jerked a thumb toward the archway. “You left the back door in the kitchen open. The one you came in after your stroll through the neighborhood tonight?”
His eyes went wide. He glanced down at the pottery shard and shot to his feet, awkwardly trying to block her view of it. But it was too late.
Miranda gestured at the table. “I know you went to your sister-in-law’s house, Cameron. I saw you get that from the stairs under the indoor pool where she was killed. That’s the murder weapon, isn’t it?”
He reached down. Wildly, Miranda hoped he was going for the shard but he scooped up the gun and pointed it at her. “Are you the only one who knows?”
She shot up her hands, palms facing him, as if that could protect her from a bullet. “Knows what, Forest?”
His mouth opened and closed again.
“That you killed Blythe?”
“I—I—” He sank back onto the couch and pressed his free hand against his face again. He didn’t let go of the gun. Instead he shoved his elbow onto his lap and kept it pointed at her. An awkward position, but still dangerous. But he started talking. Maybe out of nerves. “Blythe called me last night after rehearsal and wanted me to come over and talk, so I did. She wanted to go to the police. I tried to tell her that was crazy.” He looked up at Miranda as if he’d just realized he’d implicated himself.
Why was he telling her this? Was he unburdening his conscience before he shot her? And then himself?
“I tried to reason with her. Really I did. I begged her, but she just wouldn’t listen.”
“So you got angry.”
Another sob escaped him as he nodded. “I couldn’t help it. I was furious. I reached out for something to throw at her and my fingers found that vase. I flung it on the floor instead and watched it smash to pieces.”
That must have gotten her attention. She should have run but that probably wouldn’t have saved her. “What happened next?”
Forest shrugged as if it were obvious. “She turned around and screamed at me to get out. She told me she would call the police, even if I refused. She was going to do it right then. I couldn’t let her. I saw that piece on the floor.” He gestured to the shard on the table with his free hand then rubbed his forehead. “I don’t
even remember doing it. Or thinking anything. But I must have picked it up. I must have swung it at her because the next thing I knew, her throat was sliced. Blood was everywhere. I tried to tell her I was sorry. I didn’t mean it. I reached out for her but she fell back into the pool. And then all I could do was get out of there.”
“But you covered it up.”
He nodded. “I was already in swimming trucks. I thought we were going to swim while we talked. I thought she was going to tell me some ideas she had for the show. I dove into the pool to wash off the blood, swam to the other side, picked up my clothes and left.”
“And you took that with you.”
“I put it in my teeth when I swam. I was afraid the police would come to my house so I hid it outside where I thought they wouldn’t find it.”
And they hadn’t. Nobody had thought to look in that spot.
“I was panicking. Not thinking clearly. I should have left it in the pool.”
“What were you going to do with it tonight?”
His face twisted into a grimace. “Ground it into powder and plant it in the back yard somewhere, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t know.” He began to whimper like a lost puppy.
Miranda dared to take a step toward him. She held out her hand. “Why don’t you give me that gun.”
He got to his feet again and pointed the weapon at her with both hands. He glared at her. “I can’t let you. I can’t go to jail.”
He was crazy. She could see it in his eyes. But she’d dealt with crazy before.
She kept her voice very steady. “It’s all right, Cameron. Everything’s going to be fine. I understand why you got rid of your wife. She must have driven you insane with her outbursts.” Or maybe his philandering caused her outbursts. Not something to say to a man with a gun in his hand.
His face contorted as if he’d gone hard of hearing. “What are you saying? I didn’t kill Abbey. I loved her. I’d never hurt her.” His voice broke with emotion and for an instant, Miranda believed him.
She risked another step. “Was it Blythe’s idea then? Did she get you involved against your will?”
All Eyes on Me (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 1) Page 19
