Fire Dancer

by Susan Slater

  “Just that this is such a shock. No one saw this coming. Do you think that’s why she wanted to give the land back? Some last vestige of good will, a grand gesture to secure her legacy?”

  “It’s difficult to say. I believe she really felt it was the right thing to do.”

  “Well, that’s all moot now, isn’t it? We’ll have that puppy overturned in no time. Thank God, it was still in the ‘nice gesture’ stage—nothing official had been done. Nothing in writing, that is. I doubt Wayne had time to draw anything up, let alone get her signature.” He paused, “You know, you probably need to secure the house and get a motel for the night. Now don’t get the wrong idea, but under the circumstances, nothing should be disturbed. I’ll meet Wayne there in the morning to begin an inventory, but I guess there’s no hurry. I’d just hate there to be any question of impropriety. Wayne’s the executor of the estate. Of course, I’ll do whatever he says. But for the time being …”

  Julie was furious, but bit her tongue. Maybe he was right ‘under the circumstances.’ And she couldn’t imagine dear Wayne wanting her around.

  “Excellent idea and one I’d planned on anyway. I may run by the office and do a few things this afternoon.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, why don’t you let anything that has to do with the business go until tomorrow? I’d like to suggest that there will be fewer questions if a member of the family is present when you’re on the premises.”

  Fewer questions? About what? She’d assumed she was out of a job. But he was making her out to be some kind of threat. “Yes, of course, Byron.” She could really learn to dislike this man. But she had the documents in her possession that would rock his world. Moot, indeed. She smiled and took great satisfaction in what he didn’t know.

  Without further finger-pointing, they made a date to meet at the office around noon and, again, he asked that she convey his deepest sympathies to her mother. He knew Bev had lost a dear friend as, of course, had she. And, did she need help in moving out? He could possibly scare up someone. Ugh! Just posturing. He didn’t mean a word of it.

  No, she assured him, just a couple suitcases and her computer. And several envelopes holding your future.

  She was relieved to be leaving, if truth be known. She was rattling around in a house that felt like a shell devoid of Connie’s spirit. And there was a tremendous sadness, a feeling she couldn’t shake. Julie felt betrayed somehow. Connie hadn’t trusted her enough to share her horrendous burden. But Julie admonished herself—why did she feel this way? Wasn’t Connie entitled to take her own life? Be in control of the end? Not wait to be hospitalized and give in to a ravaging disease, one that would rob her of beauty and any vestige of life as she had lived it? No matter how many lectures she gave herself on Connie’s long life, her accomplishments, her beauty, her wealth—all the things others would lust after, it wasn’t enough. She’d gone far too soon. Nothing could make up for that.

  Julie would bring the BMW back tomorrow after she’d checked out another rental—surely wanting her out took precedence over any breach caused by continuing to use the car until she could secure another. She’d just deal with Byron if he had a problem with it. The papers would go in the trunk. They were staying with her for the time being. She couldn’t wait to go through them. Curiosity and cats—fit her to a tee. Or maybe she just wanted to thumb her nose at Byron. Not very adult, but the truth.

  She moved the car from the circular drive in front to the paved strip of asphalt outside their bedroom door. Unlocking the trunk first, she went back into the bedroom and gathered all the papers and took them back to the car. And as long as she was here, she might as well pack. Ben’s things were easy—he had most of his clothes with him. Hers were scattered between two closets but she grabbed hangers with coats, sweaters and slacks, piled them on the bed, then did a quick cosmetics pick-up in the bathroom, even remembering the shampoo in the shower.

  And then she remembered the designer clothes. There were five outfits that fit her perfectly. Didn’t that seem a little greedy? But under the circumstances … she walked to the closet nearest the bathroom. There was a reversible coyote and leather jacket; she carried it, hanger and all, to the bed. Next, a black cashmere dress with dolman sleeves, a midnight-blue beaded jacket, cami and matching wide-legged trousers in silk, a red gabardine suit with silk blouse and the Chanel.

  Julie slipped the protective bag off the Chanel dress and jacket and held it up, then walked back to the bedroom and pirouetted in front of a full length mirror. The sun streaming in the overhead skylight picked up the flecks of gold thread, which formed the brocade pattern adorning the cuffs and spiraling up the front plackets of the double-breasted jacket. Stunning. The dress was simple, a low, square neckline, cap sleeves with only the subdued gold brocade around the skirt’s calf-length hem. Perfect for her wedding—if she were to get married in the winter. Was this Connie’s gentle encouragement to move on with their plans? As she slipped the dress back on its hanger and picked up the jacket, she noticed a slip of paper sticking out of a side pocket. The note said simply, “Check the hatbox.”

  Julie added the Chanel to the pile on the bed and went back to the closet. In itself a work of art, Julie idly wondered where you had to buy a hat to get such a confection of cardboard and satin ribbon. Inside was a wisp of a circle, white with a sparkle of gold thread—could you call it a hat? The veil, a pouf of net caught by a gold clasp when undone would release a single layer to cover her face at chin length. Perfect. And beneath this, nestled in tissue, was a jewelry case. Julie held her breath and carefully undid the hasp and lifted the lid. She couldn’t contain an audible exhale. A bracelet, necklace and matching earrings twinkled against blue satin. Pearls and diamonds set in platinum—settings from the twenties, now popular again. Drop earrings of pearls and diamonds, twists of pearls and diamonds hanging from a chain necklace, links interspersed with bezel set diamonds. And the bracelet, a braided rope of platinum and one-carat diamonds surrounding a mabe pearl in lightest pink. The note read simply,

  You would do me great honor by accepting this wedding present.

  I wore this set on my wedding day—a gift from my groom. I have no

  daughter to give these to—but if I had one, she would be just like you!

  My love always,

  Auntie Connie

  Julie couldn’t finish the note for her tears. The enormity of the loss washed over her and, clutching note and jewelry box, she slipped to the floor, no longer holding back the wracking sobs.

  Finally, she blew her nose, walked to the bathroom, splashed her face with cold water and grimaced when she saw her reflection. She took the time to capture her hair in a scrunchy, put on eyebrows and lip gloss, then, a touch of mascara. There—somewhat more human but no amount of makeup could erase the pain. But she had work to do.

  She slipped clothing protectors over the coyote jacket and remaining outfits, carried them to the car, carefully arranging each so as not to wrinkle the garment beneath. Thirty minutes later, the BMW was piled high and ready to go.

  She’d contacted the principals—all but her mother. That call would not be easy—for lots of reasons. One being Bev’s duplicity in trying to throw her daughter at her former fiancé. But it wouldn’t do to put off the call. She pocketed the car keys and walked back to the kitchen. The dregs from the coffeemaker just might give her the jolt of energy she’d need. There was exactly a half cup of very dark liquid left—perfect! A dollop of half-and-half and she was braced. She headed out to the driveway. She started the car then reached for her cell. She couldn’t put off the call any longer.

  “Mom, do you have a minute? I have the saddest news.” Julie quickly reiterated what she knew—the illness, possible suicide, leaving a legacy. Had her mother known Connie was ill? Terminally so? And did she know that Connie had a son? That stopped her mother completely.

  “You have to be mistaken. I’d say you were wrong about leukemia, too, but you have the doctor’s word. I just
know she would have eventually told me. But a son? That’s absolutely unthinkable. She wanted nothing more in life than to have her own child. Then to have one and give it away? No. That didn’t happen. We never lied to one another.”

  Julie heard the sound of her mother blowing her nose. She needed to remind herself how difficult this would be for her mother.

  “It wasn’t as if she lied, Mother. Maybe she needed to hide her pregnancy and maybe there just wasn’t time to tell you about her illness. She knew how upset you’d be. Maybe she wanted to spare you. Let the end be shock enough.”

  “Doesn’t sound like her. And what is this about her wearing a wedding dress?”

  Julie repeated the instructions Connie had left but again mentioned that she’d been found in the dress. “Uncle Skip died fairly recently. Do you think it was some kind of tribute to him? A final celebration of their long relationship?”

  Her mother’s harsh laugh startled her. “A tribute to togetherness? Skip and Connie? Oh my, you have no idea how distant the two of them were. There was a loathing of Skip that threatened to erupt every time they spent more than five minutes alone.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “Too many years together—forty-one to be exact—and too many years between them. Skip needed her. Connie got votes—the Hispanic and Indian votes, for certain. She was beautiful—and talented. She fascinated people; they never forgot her—and, by default, him. A politician’s dream, wouldn’t you say?”

  “When you put it that way.”

  “He was a lucky man. I used to think he knew it. He treated her well, but he had no way to feed her spirit. I guess that’s the best way I can put it. She simply withered inside. He kiddingly called her his squaw trophy but I know it hurt.”

  “That’s so sad.”

  “Well, when a relationship isn’t right, that’s what happens. And I think an ethnically mixed marriage is doomed.” Julie said a silent, “Oh, no” and wasn’t disappointed. She knew her mother wouldn’t be able to hold back from dragging her disapproval of Ben out … again. “I’m sure you realize that’s why I’m so against your relationship with Ben—I see you as ending up like Connie.”

  “Mom, we’ve been through this a hundred times. Connie was on our side. I’m sorry we lost an advocate; she was a big fan of Ben’s. In fact, it was mutual. They had a lot in common—”

  “Well, why wouldn’t they? They would be far better suited than the two of you.”

  “Mom, I really don’t want to go there. I’m frankly upset that you didn’t tell me you’ve stayed in touch with Wayne. Who, I might add, made a complete ass out of himself last night. He’s juvenile and petty and thinks far too much of himself for us to ever get together. He hasn’t changed.”

  “No mother wants to see her child make a mistake. I don’t think you can blame me.”

  “Not if it stopped there. But I’m sick and tired of your maneuvering.”

  “I don’t ask for a thank you, Julie, God knows, but I would like a little acknowledgement of my caring. I’ve always put you first. Sometimes to my disadvantage.”

  “Mom, I don’t have time to listen to this. I have a number of other calls to make.” A little white lie but she didn’t want to be rude. Still, if her mother kept up this anti-Ben campaign, it was only forcing a distance between them—and not one measured in miles. “Will you come out for the funeral?”

  “I don’t see how I can. Your father’s in Los Angeles until the end of the month. They’re opening two new branch offices. I’m still on crutches—didn’t I tell you about the infection?”

  She had, but Julie let her tell the story again. A staph infection, caused by a cat scratch across her big toe, proved resistant to antibiotics. That on top of the two surgeries.

  “It sounds awful. I’ll be thinking of you. Connie was explicit in her instructions so I won’t have much to do. And, the family should be of help.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that. Maybe Byron. I always thought he and Connie worked well together. You know, both shared the same vision.”

  Julie let the ‘same vision’ remark slip by. The fact the stepson was going to try to overturn Connie’s generous gift of the land to the pueblo negated that. “Instead of flowers there will be a list of charities. Which reminds me, I need to work on an obit. I’ll include the list there and make sure I send you a copy. If you think of anything Connie would have liked me to say, let me know.”

  After an exchange of “I miss you,” Julie hung up. It could have been worse. She’d had yelling matches with her mother over Ben. Would Bev ever change her mind and let the situation alone? Julie wasn’t counting on it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  She checked into the Doubletree downtown, carried clothes up to her room, put the platinum jewelry into the hotel safe, grabbed a bite of breakfast, and headed up Central to Kinko’s. The store was almost empty. She chose a machine toward the back beside a table and dumped the envelopes. She was going to copy everything. She wasn’t sure why she would need to but she, also, couldn’t find a good reason not to. Just in case.

  The copier proved to be cranky and it took much longer than she’d anticipated. It was well after eleven when she’d sorted and stapled and put everything back in the trunk. She wasn’t reading anything now—time for that later. She couldn’t forget to call a rental agency that afternoon and get a car for the next morning. She could probably just leave the BMW at the office after her meeting with Byron. Ben could pick her up.

  She was back in the car heading downtown when it hit her—she’d left Ben’s Storyteller clay figure on the mantle in the bedroom. How stupid! If she didn’t go back now, it might be a problem to get it after the house had been turned back to family. There would be too much explaining to do. Byron would suspect them of lifting it from Connie’s collection.

  It took an hour from the center of downtown to get to the estate. But once again Julie was struck by the sheer beauty of the foothills setting. Most trees had lost their color as well as most of their leaves but there were still patches of bright, golden grasses with tasseled heads being stripped of their bounty by flocks of small finches. Idyllic. The beauty, the calm, the space—not another house in sight—only nature and the quiet opulence of Connie’s gardens.

  She pulled up in front and left the keys in the ignition. This wasn’t going to take long. Oh, good grief. The front door was unlocked. Hadn’t she set the alarm and pulled the door shut after her? Maybe Byron had run by to check on things—on her; he’d have keys, no doubt. Oh well, she’d check the bedroom door off their room and be more careful this time.

  She borrowed a pillow case and surrounded the Storyteller with small throw pillows from the couch. Safe. Perfectly buffeted by cotton batting. She’d return these to the office tomorrow, too. One more look around and then out to the car to secure the figure in the trunk. She walked back to the front door, stepped inside and squarely faced the alarm panel. This time she’d make certain everything was secure.

  The jangle of the hallway phone made her jump. The sound was magnified by the emptiness of massive silence. No radios, no TVs, no people talking. She really didn’t want to interact with Cherie or Jonathan but probably should. She grabbed the receiver on the fourth ring.

  “Oh, thank God I’ve reached you.”

  “Dr. Bancroft?”

  “Yes, we’ve just started the autopsy. I don’t know how to say this other than just come right out—Connie was murdered. Her death had nothing to do with her medical condition—other than she gave her assailant an easy target.”

  “Murdered?” Julie felt a slight tremor in her left hand. She swallowed and reached up to steady the phone with her right. But nothing could stop the finger of ice that shivered up her spine. Murder. By someone who knew they were killing the dying? Or didn’t have a clue?

  “We started to undress her and noticed the stiff collar was covering up evidence of strangulation. Obviously, easy to miss the bruising in that getup. I’ll be notifying the police.�
��

  “Speak with a Lieutenant Mark Samuels. He’s familiar with the situation here.”

  “All right. And just a word to the wise, I don’t think you should stay out there, not alone. Rosa isn’t staying the night yet, is she? I’d been yammering at Connie about having someone be there twenty-four-seven.”

  “No, the quarters aren’t ready. And I’ve already moved out. Just back to pick up a couple things.”

  “Great. Well, take care. Is there another number where I can reach you if I need to?”

  Julie recited her cell number, thanked the doctor profusely for the warning and hung up. Her legs felt wooden. The shock, no doubt.

  Murder. Not Connie. How terrible. Hanging onto life, trying to prolong it only to have it taken by someone. Murder.

  It kept repeating, round and round in her head. Connie’s murder coupled with the letter-bomb murder … what was going on? She needed to let Ben know where she’d be and share this latest. She didn’t expect him to answer but left a message. She knew he’d overreact to the word ‘murder’ so she just said there were some new developments—information turned up by the autopsy. Give her a call. She’d have her cell handy.

  What happened next would haunt her. She’d just placed the receiver back in its cradle when her eye caught movement to her left, from the hallway leading to Connie’s bedroom and the living room. She remembered letting out a startled cry and turning toward the figure. It was standing in the shadow of an enormous potted Madagascar palm.

  “Get out. Now. Run for your life.” The figure leaned forward, familiar. The voice was one she knew, hushed, a forced stage whisper, barely hissing a warning before opening a sliding glass door to the amphitheater beyond the living room and gliding through. She watched as the figure disappeared down the rough hewn stone steps.

  Then she bolted, didn’t wait, didn’t lock the front door behind her but simply ran, jumped in the BMW, turned the key, gunned the sedan up the drive. She felt the power of the explosion even before she saw it in the rearview mirror. Saw the flames billowing upward, followed by numerous secondary explosions and new bursts of fire and smoke coming from different parts of the structure. The house was imploding. She slowed to a stop and watched in horror as priceless art, jewelry, furniture, cars—all turned to cinders.