Ali Reynolds 08 - Deadly Stakes

by J. A. Jance

  “He gave A.J. a new car?” Ali asked.

  “Not new, secondhand—a Camry. Even so, the grand total came to over twenty thousand bucks. I convinced myself it was like having James pay back child support. That was the only reason I let A.J. keep it.”

  “I’m assuming there was no court-ordered child support, because you never went to court and asked for it,” Ali said.

  Sylvia nodded. “By the time James got out of prison, A.J. and I were settled in here and doing all right. I didn’t want to be beholden to him, and I didn’t want to get mixed up in some kind of visitation situation. I decided to just let sleeping dogs lie. When he showed up with the car, it was a big deal for A.J., and not such a good deal for me. My son had always taken me at my word that we were better off without his father in the picture. After the birthday adventure, I think A.J. started questioning that. I also think that’s part of why this is and will be so hard for him. He was probably hoping that someday he’d have a chance to get to know his father. Now he never will.”

  “So they weren’t in touch?” Ali asked. “They didn’t exchange phone calls or e-mails?”

  “Not as far as I know,” Sylvia said with a sad smile, “but I could be wrong about that. Secrets, you know.”

  “And you don’t know any of James’s associates from Vegas—friends, girlfriends, that kind of thing?”

  “No,” Sylvia said. “I’m afraid we didn’t have that kind of relationship. He came here briefly right after he got out of prison. When I sent him packing, that was the last we saw of him until the birthday car a year ago. I had no idea where he was living or how he ended up in Vegas. The detective who came here this morning told me that the dead woman is some kind of fancy-schmancy socialite from here in Phoenix. A doctor’s wife or ex-wife. How would James Sanders have hooked up with someone like that? The detective told me he was working for minimum wage in a halfway house, for Pete’s sake.”

  Ali busied herself writing a series of notes, remembering as she did so that Stuart Ramey had said James Sanders’s checking account never went over the thousand-dollar mark. What came in went out again almost immediately. Having learned about the birthday gift, Ali realized that about a year earlier, there must have been another invisible influx of money, some or maybe even all of which James had squandered on a car for his son.

  Ali made a show of closing her iPad and putting it away. “A.J. looks like a good kid. Where does he go to school?”

  “North High,” Sylvia answered. “You’re right. He is a good kid, one who’s never given me a moment’s worth of trouble. He’s in the Baccalaureate program at North High—the honors program. He also works two hours a day after school and a couple more on the weekends at a Walgreens where one of my good friends, Madeline Wurth, is the manager. He’s saving money to go to college. We both are.”

  Ali stood up. “I’d better be going,” she said. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t more help,” Sylvia said.

  “Oh, you were a help, all right,” Ali said. “The fact that you don’t believe James Sanders would have been involved in any way in Gemma Ralston’s murder doesn’t mean it’s one hundred percent certain. But in my book, let’s say it seems a lot less likely.”

  Sylvia Sanders’s hard-won composure took a hit. “Thank you,” she said. “In spite of everything, I believe James was really a good man. Maybe not an honest man, but a good one.”

  A man who recently came into another unexplained batch of money, Ali thought, though she didn’t say it aloud.

  Ali stood up. “Don’t bother getting up,” she told Sylvia. “I can find my way out.”

  18

  Ali’s phone had buzzed twice while she was inside the house. Now she sat in the Cayenne and checked her phone. One call was a message from Stuart Ramey, giving her the exact address of Chip Ralston’s Paradise Valley home, which she immediately fed into her GPS. The other call was from B., which Ali returned while the GPS was busy planning her route.

  “I’m here,” B. said. “Checked in to the hotel. How are you doing?”

  “Busy trying to prove a negative,” Ali said.

  “How’s that working out for you?”

  “Not very well. So far I haven’t found any obvious connections between Gemma Ralston and the other dead guy, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

  Ali was about to put the Cayenne in gear when a sudden movement caught her eye. A.J. appeared in the front yard, emerging from the far side of the house. He paused furtively at the corner, as if checking the front door, then moved purposefully toward the second car, now parked in the carport. Once again he was carrying the book bag slung over his shoulder. He quickly popped open the trunk and placed something inside. Then, removing the book bag, he closed the trunk and returned the way he had come, still moving with apparent caution. Whatever it was he had placed in the trunk, it was something A.J. hadn’t wanted his mother to know about.

  “Hey,” B. said. “What happened? Are you still there?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I wonder what that was all about.”

  “What was what all about?”

  “Something odd,” she said. “I was watching a teenager hiding something in a car that he doesn’t want his mother to find.”

  “There’s nothing odd about that at all,” B. said with a laugh. “If it had been me, I would have been hiding my private hoard of Penthouse magazines. I always kept them in the car rather than under the bed. So what’s next on your agenda?”

  “Next scheduled stop is Chip Ralston’s mother’s place to talk to his mother and sister. I’m also hoping I’ll be able to chat up a couple of their neighbors.”

  “Don’t rush on my account,” B. said. “I’ll be here when you get here.”

  Ignoring the GPS’s insistent directions that she retrace her path north on the 51, Ali made her way over to Twenty-fourth and up to Lincoln. Eventually, she found her way to Upper Glen Road, where she was disappointed to find that the Ralstons’ place wasn’t inside a gated community. One of those might have given her some security tapes to review or some rent-a-cops to question about vehicles coming and going on the night in question. When she finally located the right address, it was after dark. It was also clear there wouldn’t be any neighbors to chat up. The Ralstons’ house was at the far end of the road, with a yard that backed up to a looming wall of rocky desert cliffs.

  The house seemed noticeably smaller than some of the sprawling mansions Ali had passed along the way, and its small fifties-era windows looked almost old-fashioned compared to some of the sharply angled, window-covered places she had seen on the way in. A series of lights showed off the towering palm trees and lush landscaping that made it clear the house had been there for decades longer than some of its more architecturally daring and starkly modern fellows.

  As Ali drove up the front drive, she noticed a second, smaller driveway veering off to the right. Despite the lights gleaming in the windows, when Ali rang the bell, no one answered. Without leaving a note, she returned to her vehicle and headed down the driveway, intent on going straight to the hotel. When she reached the turnoff halfway down the drive, she changed her mind and turned up the side path. Driving past a four-car garage built at one end of the house, Ali discovered the casita tucked away at the far end of the driveway that she was sure was Chip’s apartment.

  The maid’s quarters, Ali thought, looking at the house, a much smaller replica of the main house. Not bad for an end-of-marriage bolt-hole.

  Ali had to admit that she didn’t have much room to talk on that score. After all, what had she done after the collapse of her marriage to Paul Grayson? She had slunk home to Sedona and taken up residence in the double-wide she had inherited from Aunt Evie.

  There were no lights on in the casita. Even so, Ali got out and tried knocking. As expected, no one answered. Ali returned to the Cayenne, pulled a U-turn at the back of the house, and started back toward the driveway. Before she got there, s
he found her path blocked by a pair of blazing headlights. A woman was standing directly in front of the vehicle. Her feet were spread apart in a shooting stance, while she used both hands to keep a weapon of some kind aimed on Ali. Slamming on the brakes, Ali stopped the Cayenne and buzzed down the window.

  “Out of the vehicle,” the woman ordered. “On your knees. Hands behind your head.”

  “I can explain,” Ali said as she hurried to comply. Scrambling out of the Cayenne, she landed on her knees on the pavement while the open-door alarm chimed away behind her.

  With the gun still trained on Ali, the woman spoke over her shoulder to her passenger. “Did you get through to 911, Mama?”

  “Please,” Ali said. “I can explain. Just put the gun down before someone gets hurt. My name is Ali Reynolds. I’m a freelancer working on an article about Gemma Ralston’s murder. I came here hoping to speak to Chip Ralston’s mother and sister—Doris Ralston and Molly Handraker.”

  As if on cue, the second woman—clearly the elderly mother in question—stepped out of the vehicle, an older-model Jaguar. For several long seconds, Doris Ralston stood swaying unsteadily beside the open passenger door while she used both hands in a vain attempt to operate a cell phone. “Where are my reading glasses?” she grumbled. “Without them, I can’t make this thing work. The numbers are too small.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, Mama,” Molly said. “Can’t you do anything? Give me the phone and get back in the car.” She lowered the weapon long enough to collect the phone. When the gun was no longer pointed in her direction, Ali, who wasn’t wearing body armor, allowed herself a small sigh of relief.

  “What are you doing prowling around in our backyard when nobody’s home?”

  “Please,” Ali said. “You don’t need to call the cops. If you’re Molly Handraker, I just need to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “Gemma Ralston’s murder.”

  “Who are you again, and who are you working for?”

  Even though the younger woman had yet to dial a number or press send, she still held the phone in one hand and the weapon in the other. Loose gravel from the driveway was biting into Ali’s kneecaps. She needed to bring the confrontation to some kind of peaceful ending.

  “My name is Alison Reynolds. As I said, I’m a freelancer. I’ve spoken to some of the investigators working the Gemma Ralston homicide. Some of them seem to be convinced that Lynn Martinson acted alone. Others seem to think your brother and she were in on it together. I wanted to get your take on it.”

  “You still haven’t explained what you were doing prowling behind our house while we were out having dinner.”

  As she spoke, Molly walked over to the open driver’s door of Ali’s Cayenne and peered inside. Ali suspected she was checking to see if the car was loaded with stolen goods. Meanwhile, the open-door alarm continued to ding away, filling the quiet night with its annoyingly tuneless racket.

  “I rang the bell at the front door,” Ali said. “When no one answered, I started to leave. On the way down the driveway, I decided to see if anyone was home at Chip’s place.”

  “Chip doesn’t live here anymore,” Doris said, unexpectedly inserting herself into the conversation. “Not since he and Gemma got married.”

  “Mother!” Molly said warningly. “Stay out of this. Let me handle it. He does too live here. Remember?”

  Ali didn’t know why, but for some reason, the older woman’s querulous comment seemed to have tipped the scales in Ali’s favor. The young woman was wearing a loose-fitting denim jacket. The gun disappeared into one of the jacket pockets while the phone slipped into another.

  “This isn’t very convenient,” the younger woman said, “but it’s too cold to be standing around out here talking. Mother will catch her death. I need to get her inside. Come on.”

  With that, she walked over to Ali, held out one hand, and helped her to her feet. Close up, Ali noticed that the clear crisp air was alive with the sharp bite of booze. Molly had evidently enjoyed several cocktails along with dinner. That realization sent an additional surge of relief coursing through Ali’s body. There was little doubt that she had just dodged a very real bullet. An angry woman with a handgun was dangerous enough. An angry drunk of either sex with a handgun was even more so.

  “Do you have any ID?”

  Ali fumbled in her own pocket, found a business card, and passed it over. Molly held it up to the headlights and examined it. “Something with a photo, maybe?”

  “In my purse in the car,” Ali said.

  “Get it,” Molly ordered. “I’m not letting you into our house until I know you are who you say you are.”

  Ali stumbled back to the car and grabbed her purse. In the process, she managed to pull the key from the ignition and shut off the door alarm. By the time she had her wallet open to her driver’s license, Molly had stowed her mother back in the Jaguar’s passenger seat. Molly examined the ID and then handed it back.

  “As you can well imagine, it’s been a tough day around here. You’ll need to follow us back up to the front door. I take Mother in and out of the house that way. There are only a few steps from the garage up to the laundry room, but these days, even those are more than she can manage.”

  More than I could, too, Ali thought. Her knees and hands were still shaking as she made her way back to the Cayenne and managed to climb inside.

  19

  Molly backed the Jaguar onto the main driveway and then drove up to the front entrance while Ali followed in the Cayenne. Molly parked at the door before getting out of the vehicle and walking around it to assist her mother. Doris Ralston got out of the car, holding on to her daughter’s arm with one hand while gripping a cane with the other.

  Molly unlocked the oversize double doors and led the way into the house. Ali trailed behind them. She was surprised that no interior alarm sounded. What looked like a security control panel was right next to the door, but Molly and Doris bypassed it without stopping. They walked through a spacious entryway into a large, comfortably appointed living room—an old-money room—where the highly polished hardwood floor was dotted with aged but entirely authentic Navajo rugs. The chairs and tables were genuine Mission, and the lamps were equally genuine Tiffany. Above a massive and mostly unnecessary fireplace was a full-length oil painting of a much younger Doris Ralston clad in a sapphire evening gown.

  As Molly eased her mother down onto a long leather sofa, Ali couldn’t help noticing that although the two women resembled each other, mother and daughter were anything but a matched pair. Doris Ralston looked to be somewhere in her eighties, decidedly frail but utterly fashionable. She was dressed in a classic St. John’s knit that was probably at least a decade old, as were her low-heeled pumps, but her thinning white hair was carefully combed, and her liver-spotted hands were beautifully manicured.

  Molly, somewhere in her forties, with a mane of wavy auburn hair, was a younger image of her mother’s good looks, but with a harder edge. Years of smoking were beginning to carve an indelible mark into the curve of her cheeks. In her choice of clothing, Molly Handraker diverged from her mother’s in every way. The skimpy tank top she wore over possibly surgically enhanced breasts didn’t quite meet the top of her low-rider jeans. The denim of the pencil-thin pants was suitably worn in all the right places, but Ali suspected that the wear in the denim came from that—actual wear—rather than the artificially preworn look available new at Old Navy. Her stiletto boots were far more of a fashion statement than they were practical. The outfit was topped by a short sequined denim jacket.

  Once Doris was seated, Molly stripped off the jacket and dropped it on a nearby chair before joining her mother on the couch.

  “Remind me,” Doris said, nodding and frowning in Ali’s direction. “Who is this again, and what’s she doing here?”

  “She’s a writer,” Molly answered brusquely. “She’s here to talk about Gemma.”

  “What about Gemma?” Doris asked, looking around the
room with a puzzled expression, as though the object of her search might be hiding behind or under one of the room’s massive pieces of furniture. “Did she call me today? Wasn’t she supposed to come to dinner with us tonight? I do so enjoy her company.”

  Molly rolled her eyes. “Gemma couldn’t come to dinner with us,” she said shortly. “She’s dead!”

  Doris seemed remarkably unfazed by her daughter’s blunt response. “Really?” she asked, frowning. “I didn’t know that. Are you sure? When did that happen? Why didn’t someone tell me about it?”

  “Someone did tell you about it.” Shaking her head in weary resignation, Molly turned from Doris to Ali. “As you can see, talking to my mother isn’t going to do you much good, so I guess you’ll need to talk to me. Go ahead and have a seat.” She motioned Ali into a nearby chair, then returned to her mother. “Are you tired, Mama? Do you want to go to bed?”

  “Oh, no,” Doris Ralston said. “Not at all. I’ll just sit here and wait for your father to come home. I can’t imagine what’s keeping him.”

  Ali remembered Beatrice Hart saying that Chip’s father had died fairly recently of a stroke, but evidently not in Doris’s rewritten version of reality. For the next half hour, Alzheimer’s was the elephant in the living room while Ali conducted her interview. Doris’s son, Chip, may have been the family expert in all things Alzheimer’s, but if he was on his way to prison for murdering his ex-wife, then the responsibility for caring for their ailing mother would fall to Chip’s sister, Molly.

  “You’re your mother’s primary caregiver?” Ali asked.

  Molly nodded. “Ironic, isn’t it, considering Chip’s line of work, but it turns out my perfect brother is far too busy taking care of other people’s families to worry about his own. That’s why our father wanted me to do it, and yes, it’s pretty much up to me.”

  “I spoke to both Ms. Martinson and your brother. Neither one of them mentioned your mother’s situation.”