Authors: J.A. Jance
“Surely you don’t think I had something to do with Billy’s death.”
“Did you?” Ali asked.
Arabella stared at her and didn’t answer.
“Did you?” Ali prodded again.
“You wouldn’t really go to the police, would you?” Arabella asked.
“Yes, I’m afraid I would. I’ve just spent two days giving my friend’s teenage daughter hell for not coming forward and giving pertinent information in another set of homicides. It would be hypocritical for me to keep quiet in this one.”
“Even after everything Mother and I did for you?”
“I’m sorry, but yes. Even after all that. Not because I want to; because I have to. And no matter how much it costs, you need to find yourself an attorney.”
Leaving her coffee untouched on the table, Arabella surged to her feet. She stood and straightened her sweater, the same mended cardigan she had worn on the previous occasion. Ali reached out to help her, but Arabella would have none of it.
“Leave me alone,” she said, drawing away as if Ali’s very touch was poisonous. “If you’re determined to go to the authorities, we have nothing further to discuss.”
She walked unassisted as far as the door. At the entryway table, she turned and looked back. “I know something about killing,” she said. “I tried to kill my brother Bill once, you know. He came into my room, grabbed Blueboy out of his cage, and squashed him flat. Squeezed my poor little bird in his fist until he was dead. He told me if I ever told anyone, he’d do the same thing to me—squeeze me until I was dead, and he put his hand around my throat to show me he could do it. So I stole a knife from the kitchen and hid it under my pillow. That night, when he came to my bedroom the way I knew he would, I pulled out the knife and stabbed him. I was just a kid, and I think it surprised the hell out of him. He went to the hospital, but the son of a bitch didn’t die. Damn him anyway, he didn’t die.”
Arabella’s unsolicited confession was as chilling as it was fierce.
“What about Billy?” Ali asked. “What about your nephew?”
“What about him? Believe me, if I had wanted to kill him, I would have.”
But did you?
Ali wondered.
Arabella turned and stormed out the door. Ali watched through the sidelights as Leland Brooks hurried forward, offered Arabella his arm, and then carefully led her back to the waiting Rolls. They might have been an old married couple making their way together across treacherous terrain. Once he closed the car door, he turned and looked back toward where Ali was standing. Then, with a shake of his head, he climbed into the driver’s seat.
As they drove out of sight, Ali couldn’t help wondering if Arabella Ashcroft was capable of murder. Certainly she was capable of
attempted
murder. She had said as much herself. And what about Arabella’s lies? Either she had lied to Ali when she said Billy had threatened her or she had lied to the cops when she said he had not. And since Billy Ashcroft was definitely dead, the cops needed to get to the bottom of the situation one way or the other.
For a long time after Arabella left, Ali struggled with what she should do. Yes, she owed her education to Anna Lee and Arabella Ashcroft. And yes, her whole career had come about as a result of their generosity. But if Arabella had murdered her nephew in cold blood—dragged him behind a car until he was dead—Ali couldn’t just keep quiet. She couldn’t.
She tried calling Dave, but he was probably in court. His phone went straight to voice mail. Instead of leaving a message, Ali went into her bedroom and located everything she’d emptied out of her jacket pocket the night before. There, along with her car keys, she found a collection of business cards that belonged to a series of Phoenix PD detectives. She picked one at random—Detective Mike Ryan. She dialed his number hoping he’d be able to put her in touch with whichever investigators had been assigned to the William Ashcroft homicide.
It’s a homicide investigation,
she told herself firmly as Ryan’s extension began to ring.
I don’t have a choice.
While Ali waited for someone to call her back, she turned her attention to the blog. The situation at the hospital was an ongoing investigation. That meant there was little she could say, but she felt obliged to say
something.
CUTLOOSEBLOG.COM
Friday, January 13, 2006
I know my name is showing up in the news in reference to what happened last night at St. Francis
Hospital down in Phoenix. I know many of you are worried about me. My mailbox is brimming with e-mails asking me if I’m okay and letting me know that the blog stopped opening earlier this morning due to too many hits on the server. So I’m posting this and hoping you’ll be able to read it sometime soon.
I’m fine and I’m very grateful to be alive. My friend’s daughter, who was targeted in the attack, is also safe and back home with her family.
Yes, it’s true. I’m the same Ali Reynolds who was involved in the hostage situation at the hospital, but because of the nature of the ongoing investigation, I’ve been advised to say nothing more on that topic. If you’re connected to one of the media outlets and you’re reading this post, please understand that if you do happen to reach me, all you’ll be given for the trouble is the usual “no comment.”
I know that readers of my blog are accustomed to more information than this, but for right now this will have to do. Once again, let me say thank you for your concern, your prayers, and your e-mails.
More on all of this later. With the way investigations of this magnitude go, however, I expect that means MUCH later.
Babe, posted 1:05
P.M
.
Evidently the server was still having difficulties. It took a very long time for Ali’s post to upload. When it finally did, she turned to answering some of her voluminous e-mail. It was relatively mindless work that kept her from watching the telephone and waiting for it to ring. Detective Ryan had told her that someone involved in the Ashcroft investigation would get back to her, but she wondered how long that would take.
One at a time she made her way through the long list of received mail, discarding the spam and answering most with a brief one-or two-sentence response. Halfway to the bottom, she found a message from Velma. As she scanned down the list she saw it was only the most recent of three from the same address.
Dear Babe,
I’m thinking about all this. Waiting is hard.
V
ELMA
Closing that one, Ali scrolled down to the first of Velma’s e-mails and opened that.
Dear Babe,
I can’t thank you enough for putting me in touch with those very nice people at Cancer Resource. As you said, it was quite expensive, but I was able to sign up over the Internet and I’ve been assigned a caseworker. She sent me the documents needed to request all my medical records and test results from my primary physician so I could be transferred over to them. She said once I had signed the various releases, they would make arrangements to have my records sent or delivered to one of their consulting oncologists. Once they have them, they’ll make an appointment for me to have a second opinion.
Considering the way things have worked in the past, I expected it would take several weeks to accomplish all this, but the caseworker told me that
the whole idea is to streamline the process, not slow it down. So the biggest variable will be how long it takes my primary physician to release the records. I just called him and told his office manager that I expect things to be expedited on their end. We’ll see.
Anyway, thank you for sending me to someone who seems to understand that people facing a cancer diagnosis don’t have all the time in the world.
V
ELMA
T
IN
L
AGUNA
That was something Ali remembered from her experience with her first husband, Dean. It seemed as though it had taken forever to get lined up for the various tests and then it took even longer to get the results back, especially if the news was bad. In fact, the worse the news, the longer it took to get it.
She scrolled up the list and read Velma’s next note, one that had been sent on Thursday.
Dear Babe,
I’m still waiting. A courier is supposed to pick up my records today. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but it seems like there’s a new lump that’s right next to where they did the needle biopsy. And maybe one on the other side, too. If that’s the case, if these damned things are growing that fast, maybe the first doctor was right and there’s nothing to be done. But if I’m sick, shouldn’t I feel sick? If I opt for treatment—surgery or surgeries, chemo, or radiation—I know I’ll for sure feel sick then.
I talked to my caseworker about this. She said
the best thing to do is to do nothing until we have the information. She’s nice enough, and I know she means well, but it isn’t her body. It isn’t her life. I hate waiting.
V
ELMA
T
After several minutes of thought, Ali finally replied:
Dear Velma,
Waiting is the hardest part. Please keep me posted.
A
LI
She had just pushed
SEND
when her phone rang again.
“Ms. Reynolds?” a male voice asked. “My name’s Larry Marsh, Detective Larry Marsh, with the Phoenix Police Department. This is about the William Ashcroft homicide. Detective Ryan suggested we give you a call. You have some information for us?”
Ali took a deep breath. “Yes, I believe so.”
“And that would be?”
“You’ve spoken to Billy Ashcroft’s aunt, Arabella? Is she under suspicion?”
“I’m sorry. This is an ongoing investigation, Ms. Reynolds. I can’t comment on what we’re doing one way or the other. At this point the field of suspects is wide open. Do you have specific information for us?”
Trying to be helpful, Ali also wanted to be diplomatic. “Did Arabella mention that she wasn’t on the best of terms with her nephew?”
“She didn’t indicate there was any particular problem,” Detective Marsh replied.
“She probably told you he came around offering her a reverse mortgage.”
“Correct,” Marsh said. “Come to think of it, she did mention a reverse mortgage.”
“But I think there was more to it than that,” Ali continued. “I believe Billy was trying to extort money from her and threatened to have her put away in a home somewhere if she didn’t hand it over.”
“Ms. Ashcroft mentioned something to the effect that she and Mr. Ashcroft had discussed her future living arrangements,” Detective Marsh allowed. “Beyond that, however, she didn’t seem upset, and she certainly didn’t mention being threatened.”
“She mentioned it to me,” Ali asserted quietly.
“Were you privy to some kind of interaction between the two of them?” Marsh asked. “Did you actually hear what was said?”
“No,” Ali answered. “Arabella told me about it, and it sounded serious.”
“And what’s the nature of your relationship with Ms. Ashcroft?”
“Mine?” Ali returned. “We’re friends. We’ve been friends for years.”
“So you wouldn’t be in a position to benefit from Ms. Ashcroft’s financial arrangements one way or the other?” Marsh asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“And what about Mr. Ashcroft? Do you know him?”
“I’ve never met him,” Ali said. “And I don’t believe Arabella had either, prior to this week. What I do know is that there had been bad blood between Arabella and Billy’s father. Years ago she actually tried to kill him.”
“Arabella tried to kill Billy?” Marsh asked.
“No,” Ali answered. “She tried to kill Billy’s father—William Ashcroft Junior. He was her stepbrother. He’d been cruel to her, abused her, and killed her pet bird. She got even by stabbing him.”
“And this was when?” Marsh asked.
“November of 1944.”
“I see,” the detective said. “And you know about this how?”
“Because Arabella told me about it, some of it just today.”
“Let me get this straight,” Marsh said. “The two of you must be exceptionally good friends. Not only does she clue you in on her nephew’s current threat, but she also confesses to the long-ago attempted homicide of her brother?”
“Her stepbrother,” Ali said. “Bill Junior was ten or so years older than she was, and he had been molesting her for years. What finally pushed her over the edge was the death of her pet parakeet. Her stepbrother killed Blueboy right in front of her. A matter of hours later, she took after him with the knife.”
“I take it the brother—the stepbrother—didn’t die as a result of her attack?”