Hand of Evil

by J. A. Jance

  “She didn’t indicate there was any particular problem,” Detective Marsh replied.

  “She probably told you he came around offering her a reverse mortgage.”

  “Correct,” Marsh said. “Come to think of it, she did mention a reverse mortgage.”

  “But I think there was more to it than that,” Ali continued. “I believe Billy was trying to extort money from her and threatened to have her put away in a home somewhere if she didn’t hand it over.”

  “Ms. Ashcroft mentioned something to the effect that she and Mr. Ashcroft had discussed her future living arrangements,” Detective Marsh allowed. “Beyond that, however, she didn’t seem upset, and she certainly didn’t mention being threatened.”

  “She mentioned it to me,” Ali asserted quietly.

  “Were you privy to some kind of interaction between the two of them?” Marsh asked. “Did you actually hear what was said?”

  “No,” Ali answered. “Arabella told me about it, and it sounded serious.”

  “And what’s the nature of your relationship with Ms. Ashcroft?”

  “Mine?” Ali returned. “We’re friends. We’ve been friends for years.”

  “So you wouldn’t be in a position to benefit from Ms. Ashcroft’s financial arrangements one way or the other?” Marsh asked.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “And what about Mr. Ashcroft? Do you know him?”

  “I’ve never met him,” Ali said. “And I don’t believe Arabella had either, prior to this week. What I do know is that there had been bad blood between Arabella and Billy’s father. Years ago she actually tried to kill him.”

  “Arabella tried to kill Billy?” Marsh asked.

  “No,” Ali answered. “She tried to kill Billy’s father—William Ashcroft Junior. He was her stepbrother. He’d been cruel to her, abused her, and killed her pet bird. She got even by stabbing him.”

  “And this was when?” Marsh asked.

  “November of 1944.”

  “I see,” the detective said. “And you know about this how?”

  “Because Arabella told me about it, some of it just today.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Marsh said. “The two of you must be exceptionally good friends. Not only does she clue you in on her nephew’s current threat, but she also confesses to the long-ago attempted homicide of her brother?”

  “Her stepbrother,” Ali said. “Bill Junior was ten or so years older than she was, and he had been molesting her for years. What finally pushed her over the edge was the death of her pet parakeet. Her stepbrother killed Blueboy right in front of her. A matter of hours later, she took after him with the knife.”

  “I take it the brother—the stepbrother—didn’t die as a result of her attack?”

  “No. He died several years later in an automobile accident.”

  “I’m a homicide detective, Ms. Reynolds. I generally don’t deal with cases concerning dead birds—past or present. And you already told me that the stepbrother didn’t die. This ancient history is all very interesting, of course, but can you explain to me how any of it applies to what’s happening in the here and now?”

  Ali had contacted the authorities with the intention of letting them know about Arabella’s diary and how she thought it might somehow be connected to Billy Ashcroft’s death. In the face of Detective Marsh’s outright derision, it wasn’t easy to plunge on, but Ali did so.

  “I believe Billy Ashcroft’s murder may be connected to Arabella’s diary,” she said.

  “What diary?” Marsh asked. “She’s keeping a diary?”

  “Was keeping a diary,” Ali corrected. “Back when she was nine, back when this all happened. And when she found out it was missing a little while ago, she was very upset. That’s when she blurted out the story of trying to kill her brother. If you managed to read it yourself…”

  Marsh was losing patience. “You said a moment ago that the diary is missing. How could I possibly read it?”

  “It’s missing from my house here in Sedona,” Ali said. “It’s not missing from there in Phoenix. It was in my purse last night during that whole mess at St. Francis Hospital. I’m sure it was picked up in the evidence sweep along with my purse and cell phone. It’s probably locked away in an evidence locker somewhere at your department.”

  “And you’re asking me to read it?”

  “Yes,” Ali said.

  “Is there anything else?”

  Ali, too, was losing patience. It sounded as though Marsh’s ears were closed and his mind was made up.

  “No,” she said. “I can’t think of anything else.”

  “Good then,” he told her. “I want to thank you for coming forward, Ms. Reynolds, but I also feel obliged to give you a word of caution. While we appreciate your interest in the case, it’s usually not a good idea for civilians to insert themselves into one police investigation after another…”

  “Wait a minute,” Ali interrupted. “If you’re talking about last night, let me remind you that that particular ‘investigation,’ as you call it, came to me.”

  “Be that as it may, Ms. Reynolds. My advice is the same. You might want to take a step back from all this and leave it to the professionals. Of course, just in case you happen to come across any additional information, let me give you my numbers….”

  “Don’t bother,” Ali said. “I believe I’ve already got your number. That came through loud and clear.”

  { CHAPTER 15 }

  In their office cubicle at Phoenix PD, Larry Marsh sat staring at his telephone receiver.

  “She hung up on you?” Hank asked.

  “Pretty much,” Larry said. “So, where are we?”

  “I’m working on tracing the Silver Star that was found under the floor mat in Mr. Ashcroft’s vehicle. The name A. Reed is engraved on the back, but so far no luck tracing Mr. Reed. While Ms. Reynolds was hanging up on you, I was being bitched out by some battle-ax at the VA who read me the riot act and let me know in no uncertain terms that we’re breaking the law.”

  “Breaking what law?”

  “It turns out that found military medals are supposed to be returned directly to the Defense Department. We’re to make no effort to locate either the serviceman in question or his surviving family.”

  “But this is a homicide investigation,” Marsh objected.

  “Wouldn’t you think,” Hank agreed. “Which is why I plan on working my way up the chain of command. What about you?”

  Marsh stood up. “I think I’m going to take a walk down to the evidence room.”

  “How come?”

  “Evidently we have Arabella Ashcroft’s diary down there under lock and key. Something weird about a dead parakeet. Ali Reynolds seems to be of the opinion that we should take a look at it, and I guess I will.”

  Ali was still fuming long after she put down the phone. She had done her civic duty by reporting her concerns and had felt like a traitor for doing so. Detective Marsh had mocked her suggestion that Arabella’s dead parakeet might somehow be connected to everything that had happened, even though Ali had no idea what that connection might be. Marsh’s attitude had been nothing short of galling. Ali Reynolds wasn’t accustomed to being dismissed as some kind of meddling wacko.

  “Leave it to the professionals,” she groused aloud, mimicking Detective Marsh’s snide delivery. “Don’t insert yourself into the investigation.”

  But she had already been inserted—by none other than Arabella Ashcroft herself. All her life Ali Reynolds had responded poorly to being told to sit down and shut up, and this time was no exception. Her immediate response to Detective Marsh’s back-off suggestion was to want more information.

  To track down the general history of the Ashcroft clan, Ali knew she could spend the next several hours combing through computerized searches. With those, she would come away with the bare-bones outline of what had gone on through the years. Over the weekend and with Chris’s help, she could probably flesh out those reports into some
thing reasonably comprehensive, but what she was looking for right then was a way to jump-start her investigation. To do that, she turned to her computer, all right, but to her address book rather than Google. A few minutes later she was dialing the number for Deborah Springer.

  In the realm of female journalists, Mrs. Deborah Springer was legendary. A World War Two widow who never allowed anyone to refer to her as Ms., Deb Springer had gone to work in the L.A. Times secretarial pool to support her three small children. She had gradually boosted herself into doing actual reporting and had spent several years writing the obligatory society postings on the women’s pages. Eventually, though, Deb had beaten the odds and snagged herself a business beat. At a time when “women’s libbers” were just starting to burn their bras, Deb’s hard-nosed reporting had landed her a coveted editorial position. Retired since the mid-1980s, no one knew more about southern California’s movers and shakers than Deb Springer.

  Ali had done an interview with the woman on the occasion of Mrs. Springer’s ninetieth birthday. The filming had been done in the lobby area of the assisted living facility in LaJolla where Deb and her now deceased third husband had taken up residence. Ali and Deb Springer had liked each other instantly, and Ali had come away from the interview with a deep respect for this sharp-witted woman who, years after leaving the newspaper business, had lost none of her encyclopedic knowledge of the California business community.

  When the interview had ended, Mrs. Springer had given Ali her direct telephone number and invited her to call if she ever wanted to chat. But at least three years had passed since then, and Ali had been away from California and out of the loop for part of that time. As she dialed the number, she worried that she’d hear a recorded message saying that the number had been disconnected. She did not.

  “Hello. Hello,” Deb Springer’s cracked voice announced. “Just a minute. Hold on until I get my hearing aid out. There now. Who’s calling, please?”

  “Alison Reynolds,” Ali answered. “I used to be on TV in L.A. I did an interview with you.”

  “Oh, yes. For my ninetieth. Ali, how good of you to call. I understand they put you out to pasture, too. When is the world going to figure out that women don’t wear out nearly as soon as the old boys think we do? Of course, a lot of very smart men are turned out before their time as well. It’s all very shortsighted, if you ask me, so don’t get me started.”

  At the time of the Springer taping, Ali had just passed forty. It hadn’t remotely occurred to her that she was already on the slippery slope of ageism. No doubt Deb Springer had known that even then.

  “What can I do for you?” Deb asked.

  “I’m working on a research project,” Ali answered. “I was hoping you could help me out.”

  “What kind of research?”

  “William Cowan Ashcroft,” Ali returned.

  “Which William Cowan Ashcroft?” Deb wanted to know. “Number one, two, or three? I know more about Senior than I do two and three.”

  Not only was Mrs. Deborah Springer not dead, she was still as bright as she had ever been.

  “All of the above,” Ali said. “For argument’s sake let’s start with number one.”

  Just then call waiting buzzed. Ali checked and saw the number of the Sugarloaf Café. That meant it was her mother calling. Edie Larson would have to wait.

  “I’ve seen pictures of him from back in the early days. You probably would have called him a hunk,” Deb Springer said. “He was good-looking. In fact, he was movie-star handsome—a widowed father with a young son, a single struggling car dealership in San Diego, and a reputation for being something of a bounder when Amelia Askins tapped him to marry her daughter, Anna Lee.”

  “Tapped him?” Ali asked. “As in picked him out for an arranged marriage?”

  “Exactly,” Deb answered. “A necessary marriage. A hurry-up marriage. Anna Lee was in a family way, you see, and a suitable husband was needed in short order. Bill Ashcroft was a very eligible bachelor who was about to go bust and needed an infusion of cash in order to keep going. Amelia Askins came from old East Coast shipping money, and Anna Lee was her only heir. I’m not at all sure the match was a very good deal for Anna Lee, but for her husband, it was a whale of a bargain. As the Depression deepened and car dealerships were going belly up left and right, Ashcroft was able to buy like crazy. And when World War Two came along, he had diversified enough that he was able to weather that storm as well.”

  “And the baby?”

  “Her name was Arabella.”

  “So Arabella Ashcroft is an Ashcroft in name only?” Ali asked.

  “Pretty much. Rumor had it that she was never quite right somehow, and neither was her parents’ marriage. Anna Lee moved to Arizona sometime in the fifties. She and Bill Senior never divorced, but they didn’t live together most of the time they were married, either. I assumed he didn’t divorce her because she might have taken her fortune with her and that would have left him high and dry. As for why Anna Lee didn’t divorce him? I can’t imagine. I certainly would have. She was an attractive woman who deserved better.”

  “So it was a marriage of convenience then?” Ali asked.

  “On both sides,” Deb said. “Come to think of it, she may have had a few outside interests as well. Sauce for the goose and all that, but right this minute I can’t dredge up any details. Everyone knew what was going on but nobody reported on that back then. It wasn’t considered proper in a family newspaper.”

  Bearing in mind what had happened with Ali’s own philandering husband, it seemed as though nothing had changed in the intervening years. Lots of people had known about Paul’s carrying on. No one had mentioned his numerous affairs to Ali.

  “Do you know if Bill Ashcroft number one had a sister?” Ali asked.

  Deb paused. “I seem to remember he did, a younger sister maybe. I believe she died tragically and at a very young age. I don’t remember if it was an illness, an accident, or what.”

  Suicide is tragic, all right, Ali thought. It’s definitely not an accident.

  “Tell me about Bill Ashcroft number two,” she prompted.

  “People called him The Hand.” Deb Springer returned. “I never met him, but everybody who knew him said he was a piece of work. Nowadays they’d call him an arrogant asshole who was conveniently 4-F and didn’t have to go off to fight in World War Two. Everyone pretty well figured Bill Senior had paid off the doctor.”

  “They called him The Hand?” Ali repeated. “Where did that come from?”

  “Mostly because he didn’t have one,” Deb replied. “A hand that is. He lost it early on in some kind of accident. Injured it badly enough that the doctors had to amputate. After the operation, he insisted on keeping it. Pickled it in formaldehyde and took it with him when he left the hospital.

  “The name came along a few years later. He was running several of his father’s car dealerships, and it came time to fire one of the managers. Bill Junior called the poor guy into his office and told him, ‘You may have been expecting a gold watch, but here’s what you’re getting instead—a wave.’ Then he opened his briefcase, pulled out the jar with his hand in it, and set it on the desk. I was told the poor guy who got fired puked the whole way out the door.”

  “Nice,” Ali said.

  “Not,” Deb returned. “There was nothing nice about him. He was a wart. From then on, Bill Junior always kept the jar with him, just in case he needed to fire somebody. But he was also a show-off and a drinker. Even with only one hand, he bought himself a Corvette when he shouldn’t have. He had it specially equipped with some kind of leather cuff so he could steer with his left wrist, but nobody was really surprised when he drove himself off a cliff just north of the Golden Gate Bridge. As I recall, nobody was particularly sorry about it, either, including his relatively new wife of less than a year who was already separated from him at the time he died.”

  “Less than a year? That was quick,” Ali said.

  Deb Springer laughed. “I�
�ll say. There were rumors at the time that he had a thing for little girls, but as far as I know that’s all they ever were—just rumors.”

  Not to hear Arabella tell it, Ali thought.

  “Which brings us to number three.”

  “After Junior died, Grandpa held his daughter-in-law’s feet to the fire. There was an ugly custody battle. When the legal maneuvering was over, Senior got custody of the baby and raised him himself. After the old man died in the mid-eighties, number three wasn’t much interested in cars. He sold off the car dealership empire his grandfather and father had built and set about squandering the money—something he was evidently very good at. What’s he doing these days? I heard he was caught up in some shady real estate dealings.”

  “He’s dead,” Ali said. “Someone murdered him.”

  Call waiting buzzed again. Again Ali ignored it.

  “There you go,” Deb Springer said. “Good riddance.”

  “What about Arabella?” Ali asked. “Do you know anything about her?”

  “I seem to remember she had mental problems of some kind. Growing up in a dysfunctional family like that, why wouldn’t she? I believe she was institutionalized for a number of years somewhere up in the Bay Area or maybe in Arizona. I’m not sure which. That’s what prominent families did with troubled children back in those days—they locked them up and threw away the key. I don’t know what became of Arabella once she got out. Or even if she got out. I seem to remember something about a fire at one of those places, but you’ll have to forgive me. I’m not at all clear on the details.”

  “You’ve been very clear on the details,” Ali said. “You’ve been a huge help.”

  “And what about you, Alison?” Deb Springer asked. “What are you doing with yourself these days?”

  It was much the same question Madeline Havens had asked in the lobby of St. Francis Hospital. In terms of elapsed time, an entire day had yet to pass, but it seemed more like years. Ali Reynolds had almost died. So had any number of other people.