Authors: J.A. Jance
“Is that what you would like, Madam Reynolds?” Brooks asked. “A martini?”
“Yes, please,” Ali said. “That would be fine. And a telephone.”
“Very well. Please have a seat here by the fire. I’ll be right back.”
He took the coat and draped it over the back of a nearby chair and then exited the room, taking the briefcase with him. Arabella leaned into her chair, closed her eyes briefly, and sighed with contentment. She seemed happy to be home.
Maybe she’s finally running out of steam,
Ali thought.
Facedown on the table between the two chairs lay a well-thumbed paperback copy of Louis Lamour’s
High Lonesome.
Ali picked it up and looked at the cover. The two-dollar price tag printed on the cover probably meant that it had been around for a long time.
Arabella opened her eyes. “That’s Mr. Brooks’s book,” she said. “He likes westerns. He reads to me sometimes when I can’t sleep. Since my memory’s shot a lot of the time, it doesn’t matter if he reads the same story over and over.”
What a good man,
Ali thought.
When Brooks returned to the living room, he brought with him a tray laden with shakers and glasses along with a thick stack of papers and a telephone. He put the tray on a side table, then he handed the phone to Ali, and approached Arabella with the collection of papers.
“Before I pour the drinks,” he said, “there are a few items that must be attended to.”
“Like what?” Arabella asked. “And why haven’t you changed clothes?”
“This is a listing agreement,” he replied, ignoring her question. “I finished signing it just a few minutes before you arrived. The real estate agent was more than happy to make an after-hours visit.”
“A listing agreement for what?”
“To sell the house, of course,” he answered. “Since I have your power of attorney, I’ve already signed it, but I wanted you to have an opportunity to review the documents.”
Arabella seemed totally dismayed. “We’re selling the house?” she asked. “But why? Where are we going to live?”
Ali’s first phone call was to the sheriff’s department, where she told the dispatcher what was going on and left a message asking Dave to come get her. Next she dialed her home number.
“Mom,” Chris said anxiously. “Is that you? Thank God. Where are you? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m at Arabella’s house.”
“Athena and I can pick you up.”
“No. I just talked to the sheriff’s department. Dave’s most likely already on his way here. This is going to take time. Dave will be glad to give me a ride home when things are sorted out.”
By the time Ali was off the phone, the martinis were poured, but Arabella was once again in a towering rage. “You can’t do that to me,” she screeched at Leland Brooks. “You can’t sell the house right out from under me. It’s not fair. Why are you doing this?”
“Because you’re going to need the money,” Brooks explained patiently. “We don’t have enough ready cash available to pay for the defense attorney. This is the best way to handle that.”
“Like hell it is,” Arabella returned. With that, she heaved the papers into the fire and smiled with grim satisfaction as they caught fire and turned into sheets of flying ash.
Brooks shook his head. “Those are merely copies of the original documents,” he said. “Burning them will do no good at all. Now, please, settle down and have your drink.”
“I won’t settle down. And you can’t do this to me. I won’t stand for it. You’re fired, do you hear? Fired. I want you out of the house now.”
“All in good time, madam. All in good time. As I told you earlier, I’m waiting for my ride.” Brooks turned to Ali. “I believe you’ve summoned the authorities?”
Ali nodded. “Dave Holman is on his way, too.”
“I thought as much,” Leland said.
“Why are you doing this?” Arabella asked again.
Brooks turned to look at her. “I suppose you’ve heard of the straw that broke the camel’s back? In this case, we’re talking about a star.”
“A star?” Arabella asked.
“A Silver Star,” Brooks replied.
“Oh, that,” Arabella said.
Now it was Ali who thought they were speaking a foreign language.
What Silver Star?
she wondered.
“How do you suppose Mr. Ashcroft ended up with my Silver Star?” Brooks asked. “I used to keep it in my wallet back when I first started driving your mother back and forth to Paso Robles, and I never noticed when it disappeared. I thought it had just fallen out somewhere along the line, but you stole it from me, didn’t you?”
Shrugging, Arabella picked up her drink and took an unconcerned sip. While Ali watched, she slipped back into the bizarre game-playing persona she had exhibited on their long drive together.
“What if I did?” she asked coyly. Somehow, trapped in that seventy-year-old voice, Ali heard the sound of a terribly disturbed nine-year-old girl determined to have her own way. No matter what.
“Did you plant it in Mr. Ashcroft Junior’s car?” Brooks asked.
“Maybe I did,” Arabella said. “Maybe I was hoping if the cops came around asking questions, they’d find the star and think you and mother were responsible for what had happened to him. I mean, you were just Mother’s driver back then, but luckily no one ever asked any questions, either. Bill Junior was a drunk, he died, no big deal.”
“Until Billy started asking questions,” Brooks said.
“Yes. He finally had to clear out Bill Senior’s storage unit where Bill Junior’s personal effects from the crash scene had been kept. I’m sure he was looking for something else, but what he found was the star. He hadn’t quite put the whole story together, though,” Arabella added. “He thought the two of us were in on it as a team. I don’t think he had any idea I was capable of doing something that drastic completely on my own. He found out, though, didn’t he?”
The doorbell rang. Brooks glanced at his watch. “Good,” he said. “Right on time.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” Arabella muttered as Brooks went to answer the summons. “Who on earth could that be?”
A few moments later, Brooks escorted a newcomer into the room. Ali expected to see Dave Holman or one of the local Sedona uniforms. Instead, she saw a tall, sallow-faced stranger, carrying a briefcase of his own. Despite the lateness of the hour, he came dressed in a full suit and tie. His costume alone was enough for Ali to realize he had to be a lawyer.
“I’m not too late, am I?” the newcomer was asking.
“No, not at all,” Brooks assured him. “No one else is here yet, although the police have been summoned. They’ll be here momentarily.”
“Good.”
“What kind of strangers are you inviting in now?” Arabella wanted to know.
“Madam Ashcroft,” Brooks said. “This is Morgan Hatfield, your criminal defense attorney. He’s just now driven up from Phoenix.”
“Send him back,” Arabella insisted. “I already told you, I don’t need a defense attorney. I don’t want one.”
“But you do need one,” Brooks said. “And now you have one.”
“And since the police are no doubt on their way,” Hatfield said, “I should probably have a moment alone with my client.”
“Very well,” Brooks said. “Would you care for some coffee?”
“I’d like that very much, Mr. Brooks,” the attorney said. “It’s likely to be a very long night.”
The butler turned to Ali. “If you don’t mind, Ms. Reynolds, perhaps you would be so kind as to join me in the kitchen. I’ll bring your drink along.”
Not surprisingly, Dave Holman was the first to arrive. When the car came up the drive, Brooks hurried outside and brought Dave into the house through the garage.
“Goddamnit, Ali!” he exclaimed when he saw her. “When are you going to stop scaring me to death?” And then, without another word, he pulled her off her chair and gathered her into a smothering bear hug. Ali was surprised by how good it felt to have his arms around her and by how comfortable it was to lean into his shoulder.
“Is Friday the thirteenth over yet?” she asked.
Dave raised his hand behind her shoulder so he could get a look at his watch. “A long time ago,” he said.
“Great.”
In the meantime, Leland Brooks, the soul of discretion, busied himself at the counter, setting out cups, plates, and napkins. “How many officers do you think will be coming?” he asked.
“Several,” Dave said. “From several different jurisdictions.”
Brooks switched on the coffeepot and then turned to beam at them. “In that case,” he said, “I’ll make some more sandwiches. It’s a good thing I bought groceries tonight.”
The interviews with Ali were conducted in the kitchen while interviews with Arabella took place in the living room. A signed search warrant was produced. Brooks opened the trunk so they could retrieve Arabella’s computer. He also handed over a battered Hartmann briefcase.
Sometime after three, Ali saw a pair of uniformed officers lead a handcuffed Arabella outside and place her in the back of a waiting patrol car. As they held her head to keep her from bumping it, Dave Holman was there watching the procedure. So was Leland Brooks.
It’s probably the first time he’s ever watched her pull out of the driveway when he hasn’t held the door for her,
Ali thought.
When Brooks returned to the kitchen a few minutes later, he kept his head averted and wiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. When he caught Ali watching him, he shrugged. “Time for a stiff upper lip,” he said.
A few minutes after that, Dave stuck his head in the door from the garage.
“Judge Macey is here,” he said. “He wants to know if the stuff that’s here in the garage is what you want loaded.”
“Yes, it is. Tell him I need to finish straightening up in here. I’ll be out to help him in a few minutes.”
“Don’t rush,” Dave said. “I can give him a hand.”
Brooks set off into the living room with a tray, gathering plates, napkins, cups, and saucers as he went. Ali followed him. When he came to the chair where he had deposited Arabella’s coat much earlier, he stopped and set down the tray. Then he picked up the coat and stood there for a long time, silently stroking the long, soft fur.
“You did the best you could for her,” Ali said.
Brooks shook his head. “I’m afraid my best wasn’t nearly good enough,” he said. “When Mrs. Ashcroft was dying, I told her—I promised her—that I’d see to it Miss Arabella was never locked up again. But you saw what just happened. They took her away in handcuffs. They’ve arrested her and are taking her to jail. One way or the other, she won’t be back. I’ve failed completely.”
“Arabella Ashcroft killed people,” Ali said. “She told me so herself. She’s a murderess, Mr. Brooks. You’ve looked after her for years. When you saw what was happening tonight, you made sure she had legal representation. What more could you have done?”
“I could have put her in the Rolls, turned on the engine, and locked her in the garage,” he said. “At least that way she wouldn’t be under arrest.”
“But you would be,” Ali said. “What good would that do? How many years of your life have you devoted to this woman, who deliberately tried to pin one of her own murders on you?”
Brooks sighed. “Too many to count,” he said.
“You’ve done enough for her,” Ali said. “Far more than most people would.”
“What I can’t understand is how she could be so devious,” he went on.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Ali said. “It’s tough to deal with people who never tell the truth. I should know,” she added wryly. “I was married to one of them. Besides, it’s clear that Arabella is mentally ill.”
But Ali’s comment did nothing to dissuade Brooks from his barrage of self-recrimination. “I always prided myself in knowing exactly what she was up to,” he said. “But now it turns out I was wrong—completely wrong. The guns in particular, Ms. Reynolds. I have no idea how she gained access to the combination for the safe. I hold myself entirely responsible for that. And as for poor Mr. Ashcroft. I gave Miss Arabella her medication that night before I ever left for Prescott. She should have been asleep until morning.”
“I believe Arabella Ashcroft learned to fake taking her medications a very long time ago,” Ali said. “Long before you came into the picture.”
He nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”
Out of long habit, he smoothed the coat and returned it to the back of a chair while Ali picked up the tray and carried it into the kitchen. There was a dishwasher there, but it seemed to get little use. Brooks relieved her of the tray and then set about washing up the delicate bone china in a sink full of hot, soapy water.
“Where will you go?” Ali asked. “What will you do?”
“For the time being, I’ll probably live in an apartment in Prescott. I’ll need to stay around here long enough to handle the sale of the house. It’s a shame. It was state-of-the-art when Mrs. Ashcroft had it built, but it’ll probably end up being sold as a tear down. The real estate agent advised me to leave it furnished while it’s being shown, but once it’s sold I’ll need to dispose of the contents—the furniture and the artwork, and the vehicles, as well. Once that’s all handled, I’ll stay long enough to see what happens to Miss Arabella. After that, I may do some traveling. I haven’t been back home to England—to Dorset—in decades, not since Mrs. Ashcroft sent me there to school. I’m sure it’s changed quite a lot.”