Dark Homecoming (22 page)

R
ita paid the bartender for her beer. “Thanks,” she said. “I should be getting home.”

“They ever find out who killed that kid?” the bartender asked as Rita slid off her stool.

“Which one?”

“The boy you were here with a while back.”

“Nope.” She felt a little woozy from the beer. She shouldn't have had two. She should have just had a glass of wine. “But I expect they will soon.”

Tomorrow morning, after she had told sweet little Liz all about the affair she'd had with David, Rita planned to go down to the police station and reveal everything that Jamison had told her to Detective Foley. Then she would sit back and watch the show.

She couldn't wait.

Rita stepped outside of Mickey's Bar into the cool night air. The sky was a dome of stars, little pinpoints of light in a vault of endless midnight blue. A light breeze rustled the fronds of the palm trees overhead. The beer sat uneasily in Rita's stomach, making her a little nauseous. Once again she wished she'd just had a glass of white wine.

She was parked out in back of Mickey's, near the Dumpster. When she'd gotten here, the lot had been packed; it was the only spot she could find. She walked through the parking lot, her feet crunching the gravel, her head starting to pound. She was feeling low as well as sickly. What was she about to do? Did she really want to do it?

She loved David, after all. Did she really want to destroy his life?

But how vicious he'd been to her. How cruel. His words still sounded in her ears.

She covered her ears with her hands, as if to block out the memory.

But maybe she could still win him back . . . maybe...

No,
she told herself.
It's over.

All that was left for her was revenge.

But did she really want that? Was she really as bitter as all that?

She reached her car. She opened her purse, searching for the fob to unlock the door.

Behind her, she heard the crunch of gravel.

She turned, not in any way alarmed, just indifferently curious, and what she saw was a figure in the darkness, moving quickly toward her.

Rita never had time to be afraid.

She barely had time for pain.

The sound of the blade through the air was immediately followed by a cold, burning sensation against her belly, and in the last seconds of consciousness, she caught a glimpse of red blood and amber beer exploding onto the side of her car.

The blade came swinging at her throat, and everything went dark for Rita.

She had never even screamed.

L
iz woke with a start. Glowing green through the darkness, the clock read 3:15.

All at once, she felt cold and realized David wasn't in the bed beside her. She'd fallen asleep waiting for him to come upstairs, but apparently that had never happened. Liz sat up and switched on the light.

She gasped. David was sitting in a chair across the room, wrapped in a bathrobe, just staring straight ahead at her.

“David?” Liz asked. “Are you all right?”

“No,” he replied in a soft voice.

“What's the matter?” she asked.

“I have to leave in the morning.”

“What do you mean?” Liz swung her legs out of bed and placed her feet against the floor. “David, you can't be serious!”

He stared over at her with dead eyes. His voice was monotone. “Delacorte sent me an email he just received. A Dutch company is going to launch a takeover bid of our entire European holdings.”

“You just got back from Europe,” Liz said feebly.

His expression didn't change. “I thought I'd put the problems to rest. Apparently I didn't.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I'm not sure.”

David didn't smile, didn't apologize, didn't show any sign of any emotion. If he was upset that he had to leave, he didn't express it. If he was glad, he didn't express that either.

“Are you telling me the whole story?” Liz asked. “Is there something else wrong?”

“Nothing else is wrong.” He continued staring at her, which made Liz supremely uncomfortable. “But I have to save the company. Or else my father will blame me.”

“Oh, David,” she said in a low voice, lying back down and pulling her legs up to her chest.

He continued to sit there.

“At least come back to bed for a couple of hours?” Liz asked.

“I wouldn't be able to sleep. A car is picking me up at five o'clock. I'll be meeting Dad's private jet at the airport at six.” He stood. “I should get ready.”

Liz heard him walk across the room and step into the bathroom. The door closed behind him. The water in the sink went on. The shower stayed off, however. It had appeared to Liz that David, wrapped in that bathrobe, had already showered. His hair seemed wet and he was barefoot.

Why was he so unapologetic? Why did he seem so utterly resigned to going? After everything Liz had said to him last time, she would have thought he'd at least express some regret about having to leave for Europe again. What the hell was going on with him?

She sat up when he came out of the bathroom and started to get dressed.

“David, please tell me if something else is going on.”

“I've just got to go,” he said, knotting his tie.

Liz got out of bed. “Did something happen? Please tell me.”

He moved those blank eyes over to her again. “What happened was a Dutch company initiated proceedings to take over our holdings.”

“Fine,” Liz said. “I guess this is what our marriage will be. You taking off unexpectedly and going away for who knows how long.”

“I'm sorry, Liz.”

Finally an apology. She looked over at him.

But he kept his eyes averted. He slipped on his jacket and grabbed a small suitcase.

“I'll call you,” he said, brushing his lips against her hair.

She said nothing. She just stood facing away from him, her arms wrapped around herself, listening as he opened the door and walked out. She listened to his footsteps down the hall until they faded away.

“T
he body's over here, Detective,” the cop called to Foley, who was just getting out of his car in front of Mickey's Bar, a cup of coffee in his hands.

“What a way to start our day, huh?” Foley asked Aggie, who was getting out of the passenger side of the car. “How many murders are we supposed to juggle at once?”

“I'm beginning to feel like Benson and Stabler,” she quipped.

They crunched across the gravel parking lot. Out in back of the bar, near a Dumpster, an area had been cordoned off with yellow police tape. Half a dozen officers in blue uniforms were milling about. One of them was motioning to Foley.

“The victim's a Latina female, sliced up pretty good at the throat and the stomach,” the cop, a tall black man, was saying. “The guy who came to get the trash this morning found her. Looks like she was killed sometime last night.”

“And nobody found her until this morning?” Aggie asked.

The cop shrugged. “Parked way back here, I guess nobody noticed.”

“That her car?” Foley asked, nodding at the silver Toyota Corolla with blood splattered along its driver's side door.

“Appears to be. She's got a key fob in her hand.”

Foley bent down at looked at the dead woman on the ground. She was lying on her side. Her pretty face was pressed down into the gravel. Her eyes were still open.

Her eyes . . .

“Joe,” Aggie said, bending down next to him. “I know her . . .”

“Yeah,” Foley said. “Yeah, we both do. We interviewed her. About the murder of Jamison Wilkes.”

“Right. She said she knew nothing about it.”

“Excuse me, detectives.”

It was the cop who'd been speaking with them. Joe and Aggie stood.

“This is the bartender from Mickey's. He talked to the young lady last night in the bar.”

“What's your name?” Joe asked the man, a short balding redhead.

“Kenny Cooper. We spoke after the Wilkes kid's killing.”

“Right. Did you know this victim?”

He shook his head. “Not really. Just to say hello to when she came in for a drink.”

“Did she come in often?” Aggie asked.

“Not really. Maybe two or three times a month.”

“So you didn't know anything about her?” Joe asked.

“Just that she worked up at Huntington House.”

“What did she say last night?”

“Not much. She seemed to be stewing about something, just sitting there by herself. She had two beers. It wasn't until she was leaving that she said anything to me at all.”

“What did she say?”

“I asked her if they'd ever found out who'd killed Wilkes. And she said maybe they would soon.”

“That a direct quote?”

“As near as I can remember.”

Joe looked over at Aggie.

“Guess we're going to have take a ride back over to Huntington House today,” he said.

She nodded. “Guess we are.”

L
iz stood at the window of her bedroom, looking down onto the grounds. She hadn't been downstairs yet. For some reason, she just couldn't make herself do it. She felt as if she'd gone back in time, and she was back in those terrible first few days after she'd come to this house, missing David terribly, feeling so all alone, hiding out in her room.

“Mrs. Huntington?”

She turned. It was Mrs. Hoffman at the door.

“I'm sorry to intrude, but you haven't answered the phone.”

“No, I haven't. That's because I don't wish to be disturbed, Mrs. Hoffman.”

The housekeeper regarded her indifferently. “Normally I would respect that. But Detective Foley is downstairs, and he insists he has to see you.”

Liz felt cold terror race down her arms and into her fingertips.

“He first asked for Mr. Huntington, and I told him he'd left for Europe just a few hours ago. Then he said he had to speak with you.”

Liz opened her mouth to speak, to blurt out the thoughts that had suddenly raced through her head, but when she realized she wasn't even sure what those thoughts were, that they were just vague, unformed fears and suspicions, she closed her mouth and said nothing.

She followed Mrs. Hoffman downstairs.

What was the real reason David had left here in such a hurry? Had he found something during his search of the house? Had he found out whatever it was that Rita had said was going on under their roof?

Lis steeled herself as she entered the parlor. Detectives Foley and McFarland were sitting on the couch waiting for her. They both stood as Liz entered. Mrs. Hoffman remained behind her. As much as Liz didn't like her, she was glad the housekeeper was with her. For some reason, she didn't want to face the detectives alone.

“Good morning, Mrs. Huntington,” Detective Foley said.

“Good morning,” Liz replied. “I'm sorry my husband isn't here. I'm sure, had he known you were coming, he would have waited.”

Why did she feel the need to say that? Liz wasn't sure.

“I'm sure he would have, too,” Foley said. “For now, maybe you can answer a few questions for us.”

“I've already told you everything I know about Jamison.”

Detective McFarland looked coldly at her. “We're not here about Jamison Wilkes.”

“Well, if it's about Audra or those other missing girls, I don't know anything—”

“Rita Cansino was murdered last night,” McFarland said.

Liz couldn't reply right away. It was as if the words didn't make sense to her, as if the detective had just spoken in another language she didn't understand.

But then the words penetrated, and Liz felt as if she might vomit.

“Mrs. Huntington,” Foley said. “Are you all right?”

“Rita was here last night,” Liz said, her voice seeming to come from someplace far away. “She worked a party we had . . .”

“What time did she leave here?” McFarland was asking. Her voice sounded to Liz as if it came from underwater.

She felt Mrs. Hoffman take a step forward, coming up to stand shoulder to shoulder with her. “I'd say it was about eleven o'clock that she left,” the housekeeper said, speaking for Liz, who could clearly not form words. “What terrible news this is, detectives.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about her?” Foley asked.

Liz remembered the strange look in Rita's eyes as she'd taken her upstairs and showed her that room.

“What are you saying, Rita?”
Liz had asked.

Liz stared helplessly at the two detectives, not knowing what she should tell them. Once again, Mrs. Hoffman, cool as ever, stepped in.

“To be frank,” she said, “I was planning on firing her this morning.”

Liz felt for a chair beside her and sat down. Otherwise, she thought she might have fainted.

“Why were you going to fire her?”

“She's been rather insubordinate at times. Not following orders.” Mrs. Hoffman took a deep breath. “Last night, during the dinner party, she went upstairs when she should have been serving. I think she was tired, and was taking rests in one of the servants' rooms.”

“Did Mr. Huntington know about this?”

“We had a conversation in the kitchen after the party was over. I mentioned Rita to him, and told him that she had been insubordinate.”

“Did he know you were going to fire her?”

“He may have presumed,” Mrs. Hoffman said.

Liz noted Detective McFarland write something down in her book at that point.

“Did Rita know that you intended to fire her?” Foley asked.

“I don't believe so. But she knew we weren't happy with her.”

“Mrs. Huntington,” Foley said, turning his eyes to her. “Do you have anything to add to this?”

“No,” she said in a small voice.

Liz didn't know if Mrs. Hoffman was aware that she'd gone upstairs to the servants' quarters with Rita last night. She might have been seen them; Liz had done nothing to hide her movements, walking straight through the kitchen when she'd come back down. But if Mrs. Hoffman did know, she was saying nothing about it to the detectives. Why?

Because of the questions they might ask.

Liz remembered the words she'd exchanged with Rita.

Liz feared that if she told the detectives about her visit to that room, she'd cast suspicion on David somehow. David—who had acted so strangely in the middle of the night and taken off at dawn.

“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Foley was asking.

“I don't know anything else,” Liz managed to say.

“Why did your husband leave so early this morning?”

“He . . . he had some urgent business in Amsterdam.”

“What kind of business?”

“I don't know . . . I don't understand his business. Something about an investor.... A hostile takeover attempt. . . I never understand what David is talking about when he talks about business.”

“I see,” Foley said, writing in his notepad.

“Was this a scheduled trip?” Detective McFarland asked. “Had he planned on leaving this morning?”

“No,” Liz admitted.

“So the decision to leave was made sometime last night?”

“Yes,” Liz said. “He heard from Paul Delacorte, who's on his board of directors, and whatever Delacorte told him upset David. That's when he decided to go. You should speak with Dr. Delacorte. He'll explain it better than I can. He'll explain that David left for very good reasons that have nothing to do with—”

She stopped speaking. She caught the cold glare from Mrs. Hoffman's eyes.

“Nothing to do with what, Mrs. Huntington?” Detective Foley asked.

“I don't know what I was going to say,” she replied. “Like I said, I don't understand business. Talk with Paul Delacorte. I'm sure he can answer your questions.”

“We'll do that,” Detective Foley said. “But in the meantime, we've also asked your husband to return home as soon as possible for questioning.”

Liz's eyes lit up. “You've spoken with David? What did he say?”

“We left a message for him,” Foley told him. “On his cell phone.”

“Oh, but he can't access his voice mails when he's in Europe. His international mobile plan is down—he keeps meaning to have it fixed, he says, but hasn't gotten around to it . . .”

“That's rather odd for a man who travels as much as he does, isn't it?” Foley asked.

“Yes,” Liz said. “I suppose it is.”

“We found a contact for him on Rita's phone,” Detective McFarland explained.

“Rita's phone?” Liz asked.

“It was called ‘David's International Mobile.' ” McFarland read off the number from her notepad. “Do you recognize that one?”

Liz shook her head. “No. That's not a number I recognize.” She was having a hard time processing this new information. “Rita had a contact for David on her phone? A private mobile number?” She laughed. “It can't be him. It must be some other David . . .”

“The voice mail announced it was David Huntington of Huntington Enterprises.”

Liz stared straight ahead, not saying a word.

“Are you sure there's nothing else you can tell us about Rita Cansino?” Foley asked.

Liz remained silent. Mrs. Hoffman said, “Nothing else comes to mind.”

“You'll call us if you think of anything else?”

“Of course,” the housekeeper replied. “Won't we, Mrs. Huntington?”

“Yes,” Liz said quietly. “Of course.”

“Thank you for your time,” Detective McFarland said.

Mrs. Hoffman walked them to the door. Liz remained standing in the parlor, staring straight ahead of her.

But she saw nothing.