Vanishing Point (v5) (epub)

by Marcia Muller

  A sudden whining and thud close by. Sounds I knew all too well.

  I was on the ground before the echo of the shot died out, heart pounding, facedown in a flowerbed. I inhaled damp soil, sucked a leaf into my mouth, and began coughing; rolled away from a spotlight that shone up on the branches of a nearby tree and crouched in the shadows.

  There were no more shots. All I heard were doors opening and alarmed voices in the courtyard.

  “What happened?”

  “That was a shot!”

  “Where’d it come from?”

  “Stay back, folks. Please stay back!”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Is somebody hurt?”

  “Go inside, people, please! Let us check this out.”

  Hotel security, getting things under control. The shooter would be far away by now. Shakily I got to my feet and moved onto the path.

  How close to me had that bullet passed? Not very. And it wasn’t all that dark out here—not dark enough for the shooter to miss accidentally. Whoever had lured me out of my room hadn’t intended to kill me, just scare me.

  Footsteps came from the direction of the main wing, and then I spotted a guard coming toward me. A second guard followed him, sweeping the shrubbery with a flashlight.

  I raised my hands so they could see I wasn’t armed. Called out, “Someone fired into the courtyard. It sounded like a handgun, small-caliber, and it came from over there.” I motioned to the right.

  The first guard hurried up to me. “Are you all right, miss?”

  “Just shaken up, that’s all.”

  He turned to the other guard. “Better get the police over here. And you, miss, come with me. They’ll want to talk with you.”

  Detective Rob Traverso of the PRPD was the officer who had given me access to the Greenwood files. A stocky man with curly brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache, he had an air of calmness and deliberation. When he entered the manager’s office at the inn, he looked me over and said, “Well, Ms. McCone, what can you tell me about this shooting incident?”

  I described what had happened, including the direction from which I thought the shot had come.

  Traverso sat down on the corner of the desk and nodded thoughtfully. “We’ve got our people questioning the guests in all the wings. Not that anybody’s going to admit to discharging a weapon in a public place. You have any reason to think the shot was meant for you?”

  “Well, there’s been some newspaper publicity on my investigation and someone may be trying to warn me off.”

  “I saw the article in the Tribune. You think someone you’ve spoken with here has a vested interest in you not finding out what happened to Laurel Greenwood?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Who?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Who have you interviewed?”

  I named them.

  Traverso smiled. “Well, I haven’t met Mr. Ziff or Mr. Lighthill, but the others I’ve known most of my life. I can question them if you’d like, but I very much doubt any of them is responsible. Maybe you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. There’s a bit of the frontier mentality in the countryside around here; it could’ve been some cowboy who’d had too much Saturday night in the bar.”

  “I suppose so.” I was perfectly willing to let the matter drop. Both Ziff and Lighthill had seemed straightforward enough and, as Traverso said, he knew the others.

  The detective handed me his card. “If there are any further incidents—”

  “Of course.”

  When I went out into the lobby, the first person I spotted was Jacob Ziff. He was standing by the entrance to the bar with a slight, handsome man whose long dark hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail. Ziff frowned when he saw me come around the front desk from the manager’s office, said something to his companion, and moved toward me.

  “Sharon,” he asked, “what’s going on? I was standing at the bar when three squad cars came roaring up.”

  “Somebody discharged a handgun in the courtyard. I almost got in the way.”

  “My God!” The other man came up beside him, and Ziff repeated what I’d said.

  The man said, “So that’s what it was. I was just getting out of my car when the police got here, and they wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  Ziff said to me, “This is Kev Daniel. Kev, Sharon McCone, the private investigator I was telling you about.”

  Daniel shook my hand. His was smooth and immaculately manicured. He wore a heavy turquoise-and-silver ring, and his silk shirt and well-tailored slacks looked expensive. I considered the conversation over and started to move away from the two.

  “Why don’t you join us for a drink?” Daniel said.

  Although I’d cleaned up some in the restroom while waiting for Detective Traverso, my shorts and tee were stained with dirt from the flowerbed. “I don’t think—”

  “We can get a table on the patio,” Ziff said. “It’s quiet there, and no one will care how you’re dressed. You look like you could use a drink.”

  I certainly could. I nodded and accompanied them through the crowded, noisy bar to a side door that led to a fenced patio; Daniel found us a table in a shadowy corner, while Ziff went to place our order.

  When we were seated Daniel said, “Jacob was telling me about you after we finished going over the plans for my winery’s tasting room this afternoon. Little did we know when we arranged to meet for a drink later on that we’d find you here—and under such circumstances.”

  “You’re a vintner?”

  “Yes, but on the marketing end of things. My two partners take care of the winemaking. The winery’s called Daniel Kane—after my last name, and that of my partners, who’re brothers. Jacob’s designed a terrific building, and we’ll be breaking ground later this month.”

  Ziff appeared with three glasses of wine and set them down on the table. To Daniel he said, “Daniel Kane Private Reserve Zin.”

  “One of our best. Cheers.” He raised his glass.

  I sipped. They made a good wine—if the opinion of one who only in recent years had begun buying bottles with corks in them held any weight.

  Ziff said, “So what happened out there in the courtyard?”

  “Someone fired a handgun. I don’t know what they were shooting at, but they came close to hitting me.”

  “Did the police catch the person?”

  “He or she is long gone. Easy to conceal a small-caliber handgun and slip away; there’re exits leading to the parking lots between the wings.”

  Daniel said, “How do you know it was a handgun? And small-caliber?”

  “I’ve been around guns for years, have owned several. I could tell by the sound of the shot.”

  “Must be scary to be shot at.”

  “As I said, I don’t know that the shooter was aiming at me. But, yes, it’s scary.”

  “Enough to make a woman pee in her pants, I’ll bet.”

  I was beginning to regret having taken him up on the offer of a drink. “My being a woman has nothing to do with it. And I didn’t pee in my pants.”

  Ziff cleared his throat, probably hearing the irritation in my voice and attempting to warn off his client.

  If he noticed, Daniel didn’t care. “You’ve been shot at before?”

  “Yes.” I’d also been shot once—in the ass, to my great embarrassment—but I wasn’t about to bring that up.

  “Shot anyone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Under what circumstances?”

  “I don’t care to talk about them.”

  Ziff said, “Let’s change the subject, Kev.”

  Daniel’s eyes had gone hot and flat with curiosity. “No, I want to hear about this. You kill anybody?”

  “She said she doesn’t want to talk—”

  “Because that’s what I’d do. Shoot to kill, it’s the only way.”

  Unfortunately he was right: in a situation where guns are drawn, you shoot to kill; I’d learn
ed that when I became firearms qualified, and doing so had once saved my life, twice saved the lives of people I cared about.

  I stood and said, “Jacob, thank you for the drink. I have to be going now.” As I moved toward the door, I heard Ziff’s chair scrape on the floor and his footsteps follow me.

  He caught up with me in the lobby. “Sharon, please excuse my client. He’s a spoiled rich kid, came down here from San Francisco four years ago with a lot of money and romantic notions about himself as a vintner, bought his way into a winery that badly needed a cash infusion.”

  “He’s got to be in his forties—no kid. And apparently he romanticizes the concept of shooting someone to death.”

  “Yeah.” Ziff looked troubled. “Under that smooth exterior, I sense he’s something of a loose cannon. Not that he hasn’t done wonders for Daniel Kane; he’s got a good head on his shoulders.” Ziff smiled crookedly. “Anyway, I apologize for his behavior.”

  “Not your fault.” I moved toward the door to the courtyard.

  Ziff wasn’t content to let the matter drop. “I guess I shouldn’t have told him about you and your investigation, but I had no way of knowing we’d meet up with you—or under what circumstances.”

  “No harm done. But let me ask you this: did you tell anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know a reporter on the San Luis paper named Mike Rosenfeld?”

  “I know of him.”

  “But you haven’t spoken to him about my investigation?”

  “No, of course not. What’s this about, Sharon?”

  I sighed, suddenly feeling weary. “Nothing, really. The shooting incident’s made me a little paranoid, that’s all. I’d better go now; tomorrow’s going to be a very long day.”

  But the sensor that an attorney friend in San Francisco called his “shit detector” had kicked in. Immediately before closing time I returned to the lounge and spoke with the bartender. Did he know Jacob Ziff and Kev Daniel? Yes, they were both good customers. Had Mr. Ziff been standing at the bar when the police arrived earlier? No, he had been at the bar about two hours earlier, but had left and returned later with Mr. Daniel and me. And when had Mr. Daniel arrived? The man looked puzzled, then said, “I’m not sure. He was at a table in the patio when I came on shift at eight.”

  Seemed like I’d had a drink with a pair of liars.

  Sunday

  AUGUST 21

  Ma’s “little wedding reception” turned out to be quite the event.

  The spacious home north of San Diego that she shared with her husband, Melvin Hunt, was filled with their friends and neighbors, most of whom I didn’t know. A full bar was set up in the living room, waiters circulated with trays of canapés, and a string quartet played softly in the garden gazebo. All this she’d organized in a little over a week, and, knowing Ma, if she’d had a couple more days’ notice she’d’ve had the house redecorated—something she did with great regularity. It was a far cry from the family barbecues she used to throw in the backyard of our old rambling house in San Diego proper, and I was hoping the genteel atmosphere and presence of strangers would stave off the contretemps that usually erupted when the clan gathered.

  If any of them ever arrived.

  Hy, in a beige summer suit, circulated through the crowd, beer in hand, charming the women and discussing with the men the stock market, the price of real estate, and golf handicaps—even though, so far as I knew, he’d never so much as picked up a club. Tall and lean, with curly dark blond hair, a hawk nose, and a swooping mustache, he wasn’t handsome in the conventional sense, but he had a presence that turned heads. When he smiled and winked at me across the room, I felt a rush of warmth. This man was my husband.

  Then he was swallowed up in the crowd. I clutched my wineglass with tense fingers, looked around for a familiar face, but saw none. No one was paying attention to me, and even in my most becoming pale green silk tunic and flowing pants, I felt more like a wallflower than the guest of honor.

  Where the hell were my relatives, anyway?

  About three minutes later the front door opened and my older brother John entered, accompanied by his teenaged boys, Nate and Matt. Nate, blond and clean-cut like his father, was carrying a large, silver-wrapped package and looked around expectantly. His brother slouched, a sullen expression on his face, which appeared to have fallen victim to recent piercings—a gold ring dangled from one nostril and his right eyebrow sported a silver one. His hair, a peculiar shade of orange, looked as if it had engaged in a hostile encounter with an eggbeater. Nate and John came toward me, but Matt slunk off toward the door to the garden. Probably planning to go behind the gazebo and smoke some dope.

  John enveloped me in a bear hug, lifted me off the ground, and twirled me around. “Hot damn, you finally did it! Where’s the lucky man?”

  “I think Ma’s friends have co-opted him.”

  “We’ll have to make a gallant rescue.” He raised his head, listening to the faint strains of the music. “What the hell’s that?”

  “Vivaldi,” Nate said. “The Four Seasons.”

  “What a drag.”

  “Maybe you expected Grandma to ask John Fogerty to perform?”

  “Kid’s a snob,” John said to me, ruffling Nate’s longish hair. “Thinks I’m stuck in an outdated and musically crude era.”

  “No, my tastes are just more eclectic than yours.” Nate smiled shyly at me and extended the package. “This is for you and Hy from all three of us.”

  “Thank you! Should I open it now?”

  They exchanged glances. “Uh, I don’t think so,” John said. “Not in this crowd.”

  “Ah-hah! Well, I’ll put it with the others and open it later.”

  A table was set up nearby, and it was already loaded with presents. A nice thought on the part of those who had brought them, but I couldn’t help but entertain the image of more stuff riding up and down the coast highway in the trunk of my MG. People who get married in their forties, particularly people with three houses between them, really shouldn’t qualify for wedding gifts.

  “I’ll take it over there for you,” Nate told me, “and then I’m gonna find some food. I’m starving.”

  John snagged a glass of wine off a passing waiter’s tray, said, “Where’re Ma and Melvin?”

  “Circulating. I think she gave this party more for them than for Hy and me.”

  “No, I think she gave it to impress someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Your birth mother. From conversations we’ve had, I gather Ma’s intimidated by Saskia Blackhawk—or at least the idea of her. Lawyer, champion of her people’s rights, has argued before the Supreme Court. You know.”

  “Saskia is a very down-to-earth person, and she doesn’t care about social trappings.”

  “That may very well be. But you know Ma.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, I do. And I’m sure Saskia and my half sister Robin will like her and handle the situation beautifully.”

  “What about Darcy?”

  Darcy, my half brother. I smiled. “I don’t know how he’ll feel about Ma, but I know he’s going to hit it off with Matt.”

  “Matt doesn’t get along with anybody these days.”

  “Neither does Darcy.”

  My Aunt Susan and Uncle Jim McCone, down from Jackson in the Gold Country, were the next family members to arrive, followed by Charlene and Vic and my nieces Jamie, Molly, and Lisa. Charlene looked wonderful—slender, her blonde hair streaked by the sun, her skin glowing. Obviously this second marriage was agreeing with her. But her eyes clouded for a moment as she held my hands.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Oh, I was just thinking of Pa. How happy he would’ve been. And Joey—I wish he could be here.”

  Our other, sadly troubled brother had died a suicide last spring. “Me too, but you know he wouldn’t’ve come. He avoided family parties for years.” I didn’t mention that Charlene and Ricky’s youngest son wasn’t attending either. His pare
nts’ much-publicized divorce had been hard on Brian, and he was currently at a camp for troubled teens in Arizona.

  “True.” She squeezed my hands, then released them. “Vic and I have a gift for you guys, but we didn’t think it appropriate to bring it inside.” She smiled at her tall, distinguished-looking husband, and he grinned wickedly.

  “Oh?” I asked. “What?”

  “Later, Shar. Later.”

  Charlene, Vic, John, Molly, and Lisa went off to say hello to Ma and Melvin. Eighteen-year-old Jamie stayed behind. “How’s Derek?” she asked. She’d developed a major crush on Derek Ford at a party she’d attended at my house last month.

  “He’s fine.”

  “Does he ever ask about me?”

  Jamie was the most sensitive of Ricky’s four daughters; I wasn’t about to tell her that last weekend Derek had brought her older sister, Chris, an undergrad at UC Berkeley, to the party at Touchstone. “He says hello.”

  “Oh! Tell him I say hello, too.” Her big smile immediately made me regret the lie, but I told myself it was a harmless one. Derek dated a new woman every week, and Chris was not known for sustaining long-term relationships. Even so, when Jamie didn’t ask any more questions and headed off to find Ma and Melvin, I felt a certain relief.

  Moments later Hy appeared at my elbow. “How’re you holding up?” he asked.

  “Better, now that there’s family here. All these people . . . well, they’re very nice, but I didn’t picture this big a gathering.”

  “Big gatherings don’t usually intimidate you. Are you still upset about that shooting incident?”

  “More concerned that somebody in the Paso Robles area seems intent on derailing my investigation.” We’d gone over the incident in detail when I’d arrived in San Diego that morning, and Hy’s professional instincts confirmed mine: the shot had been intended to warn me off.

  “To tell the truth,” I said, “I’m glad to be going back home tomorrow. I picked up a bunch of Laurel’s papers and her postcard collection from her sister before I flew down this morning, and I want to study them before proceeding.”