Crystal Clear

by Jane Heller

  “And how would she have known where to find Amanda in order to kill her?” Terry pointed out. “Will left Her Highness on a blanket at some remote spot on Cathedral Rock at four o’clock this morning. Could Tina have followed them up the canyon in the dark, waited for Will to beat it, killed Amanda when she was alone and defenseless, and then chucked the body over the cliffs? Tina’s efficient but she’s not Superwoman.”

  “Maybe she had help,” I said. “Maybe Amanda’s murder was a team effort. Maybe Billy or Jennifer or Marie pitched in.”

  “I can’t picture Marie going along with something like that. Not that lovable old girl. Mon Dieu!”

  “Marie told me last night that she was sure Amanda was about to fire her. She said if Amanda canned her, she’d never get another job, because she was passé. Or rather, her style of cooking was passé. There was an anecdote involving mashed potatoes, as I remember.”

  “You must have been riveted.”

  “Transfixed. Marie said that if it weren’t for Harrison Reid, she would have been jobless a long time ago. She said Harrison liked her cooking but that Amanda was the one who hired and fired the help. In other words, if Amanda were to disappear, Marie could keep her job in the Reid household. How’s that for a motive?”

  “Great, but can you really see poor, shit-faced Marie staggering up Cathedral Rock in pursuit of Amanda at four o’clock in the morning, whiskey bottle in one hand, murder weapon in the other? It would be a stretch, Crystal.”

  “I suppose. Then let’s take Billy. It wouldn’t be a stretch for him to hike up those cliffs at four a.m. He’s in terrific shape.”

  “What’s his motive?”

  “God, who knows? Unrequited love, maybe? I think he and Amanda were having an affair. It’s possible that she threw him out of her bed when she got to Sedona because she decided he wasn’t spiritual enough.”

  Terry smiled. “I only spent one day with the guy, but he struck me as the type who would go out and find himself some other rich bitch to latch onto if Amanda dumped him. He’s not a killer, he’s an opportunist.”

  “Okay. That leaves Jennifer, the publicist.”

  “No motive there, right? She was getting paid to make Mrs. Reid look good, not dead.”

  “True, but she’s sweet on Harrison Reid, which complicates things.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because he told her he was naming his next heroine after her and she believed him. She’s nuts about the man, trust me.”

  “Nuts enough to murder his wife?”

  “Why not? Maybe she deluded herself into thinking he’d marry her if anything ever happened to Amanda. Maybe she killed Amanda so she could become the next Mrs. Harrison Reid. Think of all the publicity!”

  “Speaking of Harrison Reid, isn’t it possible that he’s the murderer?”

  “I doubt it. He wasn’t even in Sedona when Amanda disappeared. Although he certainly had a motive for killing her. Michael told me she changed her will as often as most people change their underwear. Maybe Harrison figured he’d better bump her off before she pissed away all her money.”

  “Sounds plausible.”

  “But then again, maybe it wasn’t Harrison or Billy or any of them. We can’t overlook the possibility that Amanda may not have known her murderer. Some deranged stranger could have found her out there on Cathedral Rock and slit her throat. Maybe there’s a serial killer on the loose in Sedona.”

  “If there is, then Amanda Reid was his first victim. I told you this morning—we haven’t had a homicide here since ’95.”

  “All right then. Try this—a coyote got her. Will said that when you go on one of his Vision Quests, you commune with animals. Maybe one of the animals was rabid.”

  “Then why wasn’t there any blood at Cathedral Rock? If a coyote had his way with Amanda, those red rocks would be a lot redder.”

  I sipped my coffee. “I’m out of ideas,” I said. “I need some sleep.”

  “That I have a solution for,” said Terry. He quickly got up from his chair and helped me up from mine. “To the guest room with you.”

  “What about all our dishes?” I said, glancing at the dirty plates and cups and pots and pans.

  “If we’re very good, the dish fairy will take care of them,” Terry said.

  “And if we’re not?” I asked.

  “The dish fairy will still take care of them,” he laughed, pointing to himself. “In the morning.”

  He walked over to the sink, reached for a tall glass from inside one of the cabinets, and filled it with tap water. And then he took my arm and walked me upstairs. When we got to the guest room, he set the glass of water on the night table next to the bed and opened the nearby window just a crack. The air had turned cool, and the light breeze that whistled in through the window was fragrant and soothing.

  “That’s how you like it, right?” Terry whispered, not wanting to wake Annie.

  “That’s how I like it,” I said softly. “Thank you.”

  We were standing at the foot of the bed now, only a few inches away from each other, too far apart to touch, too close together not to. The next order of business was to say good night and move on. But neither of us was going anywhere.

  My God, I’ve been married to this man, I thought, as the sexual tension crackled between us. I know what it feels like to make love to him, to feel his hands on me, to feel his body on mine. It would be so easy for us to fall into each other’s arms and slip under the bed covers, like slipping into a favorite old pair of shoes. So what if twenty years had intervened? What would be the harm in being together again? For old times’ sake? For just one night? It didn’t have to mean anything. I wouldn’t have to do anything about it or because of it. I’d still go home with Steven and Terry would still have his life in Sedona. And that would be that.

  Or would it?

  “Crystal?” said Terry as he took a step toward me, closing the gap between us.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, answering the question he hadn’t needed to ask.

  He nodded, his expression disappointed yet understanding. He started toward the guest room door.

  “Terry?” I called out.

  He turned.

  “The other day I found out I had a brother who died before I was born,” I said. “My father told me during one of our famous Sunday visits.”

  “That’s very sad,” he replied, his eyes compassionate, his tone tender. “You lost three family members then.”

  He was speaking of my mother who died, my brother who died, and my father who might as well have.

  “Four, actually,” I said. “I lost my husband, too.”

  He shook his head. “He’s right down the hall if you need him,” he said and wished me another good night.

  Chapter Nineteen

  On Friday morning, as Terry and I were finishing up our Frosted Flakes and Annie was winding up her discourse on America’s diplomatic relations with China, the phone rang. The caller was Detective Whitehead, the detective who had referred to Will Singleton as “Sitting Bull.”

  “He wants both of us to come down to the station and answer more questions,” Terry told me. “I guess the whole gang will be there—Amanda’s entourage, her husband, Will, everybody.”

  “Can I go along?” Annie asked her father.

  “Today’s a school day, sport, and you know it,” he said.

  “Today’s a work day, Dad, and you know it,” she reminded him.

  “When you’re old enough to own a business, then you can take a day off if you want to,” he said. “Until then, it’s school, okay?” He checked his watch. “And you’re running late.”

  Annie looked at me and shrugged. “I tried, right?”

  I laughed.

  While she hustled upstairs to get ready, Terry explained that it was only fairly recently that Sedona had built the West Sedona Elementary School for grades kindergarten through six, complete with classrooms, ball fields, swimming pool, and park; that in pr
ior years, Sedona’s kids had to be bused all the way to either Cottonwood or Flagstaff. “In some ways, progress has been good for our little town,” he conceded. “Of course, before progress, people hardly ever got themselves murdered.”

  “Well, if Amanda’s pals are at the police station, I’ll have a chance to chat with them, see if they’ll tell me anything,” I said, attempting to sound optimistic.

  “Good. And when we’re done with all that, we’ll do some hunting around by ourselves.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m taking you to a couple of stops that aren’t on the Sacred Earth Jeep Tour,” said Terry. “There are some real characters around here, folks who don’t talk to the police—or hobnob with tourists.”

  “Then how would they know anything about Amanda’s disappearance?” I asked.

  He smiled. “They have a way of knowing lots of things.” He picked up the phone, dialed, and waited for someone to answer.

  “Cynthia. Hi. It’s Terry,” he said.

  Beautiful. He’s calling Sedona’s answer to Kenny G., I thought, hoping he wasn’t going to invite her along.

  “I’m great. How about you?” he was saying. “Yeah, she was part of my tour group. Very rich, yeah. I don’t have a clue. I got to the hotel to pick her up yesterday morning and nobody knew where she was. No, but I’m talking to the police this morning and doing a little digging on my own after that.” On his own, huh? “Actually, that’s why I’m calling, Cynthia. I might not be home until late, and I was wondering if Annie could play with Laura after school today, then spend the night. Right. Right. Oh, that’s terrific. I’ll tell her. Hey, I owe you one, babe.” Owed her one what? “I’ll see you, Cynthia. Yeah, we’ll have to do that soon. Thanks.”

  Terry hung up. I acted very busy scrubbing the breakfast dishes, so he wouldn’t think I’d been hanging on every word of their conversation.

  “Cynthia’s gonna take care of Annie for the rest of today,” he informed me. “That’ll give you and me the time we need.”

  “To help Will, you mean.”

  “To help Will,” he agreed. “And to be alone together in that big Jeep of mine. It’ll be nice having you as my only passenger.”

  I smiled. “It won’t cost me extra, will it?”

  “We’ll see,” he said.

  The Sedona Police Department was housed in a dinky, beige-colored structure that looked more like a mobile home than a government building. Still, its dinkyness didn’t keep the satellite trucks, camera crews, and reporters from jamming its parking lot.

  The first person Terry and I stumbled on as we made our way through the crowd and up the steps of the building was Michael Mandell. He had just given an interview to a local television station and was breathless from all the attention he was getting.

  “Have you heard the latest?” he asked, pulling us into a little huddle. When we said we hadn’t, he seemed overjoyed that he would be the one to impart the breaking news. “First of all, Harrison Reid is inside.” He nodded at the building. “And he’s not alone.”

  “Who’s he with?” Terry asked.

  “His literary agent, I’ll bet,” I said.

  “Nope. His lawyer,” said Michael. “His criminal defense lawyer. Jerry Jantz, as a matter of fact.” Jantz was a New York-based attorney who represented mobsters, professional athletes, and other high-profile clients. His services weren’t cheap. I wondered where Harrison was getting the money to pay him.

  “If Harrison Reid needs a lawyer, maybe Will isn’t the police’s prime suspect after all,” Terry theorized.

  “I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” I said. “Just because he’s got a lawyer with him doesn’t mean he needs a lawyer. Nobody goes to the bathroom anymore without his criminal defense lawyer present. It’s a post-O.J. thing. Your wife is murdered, you call your lawyer. Bam bam. It has nothing to do with your guilt or innocence.”

  “Speaking of guilt, listen to this,” said Michael. “My editor in New York got a call from somebody named Dee Caparelli.”

  “Sounds like pasta,” I mused.

  “Want to see her?” Michael asked.

  “Sure,” we said.

  He reached inside his briefcase and flashed us a photograph of Ms. Caparelli. She was a curvaceous redhead with two or three inches of black roots.

  “Does she have some connection to Amanda Reid?” Terry asked, just before being jostled by a cameraman.

  “You know how it is when a celebrity is murdered,” said Michael. “Everybody who’s even remotely connected to the person crawls out from under a rock.”

  “So this woman is connected to Amanda,” I confirmed.

  “No. This woman is connected to Tina, Amanda’s assistant,” Michael said, “and to Billy, the personal trainer.”

  “I still don’t see why she would call your editor at—” I stopped. I had a hunch. I suddenly knew exactly who Dee Caparelli was. “Billy’s girlfriend, right?” I said. “The one who used to live in Tina’s building.”

  Michael looked disappointed. “How did you know?”

  “Just a guess,” I said. “At Amanda’s dinner party the other night, I asked Billy how he’d gotten the job as her personal trainer. He told me it was thanks to Tina, that he’d met her through his girlfriend.”

  “Dee Caparelli,” Michael said, nodding his head.

  “I also asked Billy if he and this woman were still dating,” I went on, “since I assumed that he and Amanda were doing more than lifting weights together. But he never gave me a straight answer.”

  “That’s because he didn’t want anybody to know that he’d broken up with Dee a couple of months after he went to work for Amanda,” Michael said.

  “Why in the world would anybody care if the guy broke up with his girlfriend?” Terry asked.

  “Because he dumped her for Tina,” Michael said, getting to the point, finally.

  “Billy and Tina are an item?” I said, having trouble picturing Tina being an item with anybody, much less a big dope like Billy.

  “A major item,” said Michael. “They’ve been keeping their relationship a secret for quite a while.”

  “Why would they do that?” I asked.

  “Because Amanda had a strict rule,” said Michael. “No hanky panky among her employees. Billy and Tina were afraid she’d fire them if she found out about their little romance. But that’s not all. Not nearly all.”

  “Go on,” I urged, the image of Billy and Tina as lovers still boggling my mind.

  Michael moved closer. “Get a load of this,” he whispered. “There was another reason Billy and Tina didn’t want to be linked as a couple.” He paused to wipe away the spittle that had accumulated in the corners of his mouth. “They were planning to kidnap Amanda, demand a huge ransom, and disappear with the money,” he said. “And they were planning to do the job during this trip!”

  “You’re not serious,” I said. “Billy and Tina actually kidnapped Amanda?”

  “I didn’t say they kidnapped her,” Michael corrected me. “I said they were planning to.”

  “Oh, come on,” Terry groaned. “You expect us to believe that this Dee Caparelli was telling the truth when she called your editor at Personal Life magazine and announced: ‘I happen to know that my old friends were planning to kidnap the millionaire heiress?’ No way. You said it yourself, Michael. People come out of the woodwork with these celebrity murder cases. She’s probably some bimbo looking for her fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “No doubt about that,” Michael conceded, “but she didn’t know a thing about the kidnapping plot. As a rusty but-nevertheless-experienced investigative reporter, I was able to squeeze that information out of my sources at the police department. Caparelli only told my editor that Billy and Tina were romantically involved—and that Billy had a record.”

  “He was in a band?” I said.

  “No, he was in a prison, Crystal,” Michael said tolerantly. “Billy Braddick served five years at Riker’s Island for conning a seventy-year-ol
d woman into ordering bogus exercise equipment. After Caparelli told my editor, my editor told me, and I told Detective Whitehead, who thought the fact that Billy had done time warranted a search of his hotel room. Guess what he found?”

  “Not the bogus exercise equipment,” I ventured.

  “No,” said Michael. “He found a whole pad of practice ransom notes—Billy and Tina’s dry runs—in which they suggested swapping a cool two million dollars for Amanda’s safe return. The notes were crumpled up in the trash can in the bathroom, but they were legible enough to provide the police with some interesting reading material, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I would,” I said, amazed. The only criminal activity I’d ever come in contact with involved tax evasion. “But I’m confused, Michael. You just told us that Billy and Tina didn’t kidnap Amanda.”

  “Right,” he said. “When Detective Whitehead confronted them with the evidence, they admitted that they had planned to kidnap Amanda while she was in Sedona and that the job had been in the works for months. But they also admitted that they were as shocked as everybody else when Amanda disappeared yesterday morning, because it meant that somebody had beaten them to the punch, so to speak. I think they were pissed off about it.”

  “Wait a second,” Terry said. “If those two could lie about their romantic relationship, not to mention concoct a plan to kidnap their boss, how do we know they’re not lying about not kidnapping their boss?”

  “Because, according to my sources, they have an ironclad alibi for yesterday morning.”

  “Yeah? Like what?” said Terry.

  Michael snickered. “Apparently, they made so much noise while they were having sex in Billy’s casita that the people next door called hotel security. Three times.” He patted Terry on the shoulder. “I know you’re trying to help your Indian buddy, but Tina and her boyfriend aren’t his ticket out of trouble. They didn’t lay a hand on Amanda. They were too busy laying hands on each other.”