A Killing in the Valley (42 page)

Padaro Lane was Santa Barbara’s premier oceanfront community. A small place would go for at least seven or eight million dollars. Or more, the way beach real estate was skyrocketing. This man had thrown that nugget out as casually as if he’d suggested they go to In-N-Out for burgers.

“That would be nice,” she said politely. “The beach is great. Isolated.” That’s what multimillionaires like him wanted more than anything. Privacy.

“Yes, I know. I’ve stayed with friends.” He drained his beer and put the empty mug on a coaster. “Would you mind telling me what this is about?” he asked. “This interview you’re going to have with my son.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

He gave her a perplexed look. “Why not?”

“Because it would be unprofessional.”

“Why? Is Peter is some kind of trouble?”

“Not that I know of,” she answered carefully. Technically, that was true. For now, Peter Baumgartner was someone who might be helpful to her and Luke. She would reserve judgment about his status until after she had talked to him.

“Does it have to do with a case you’re working on for a client?” he asked. “Can you tell me that much?”

“Yes, I can. It does.”

“What’s the nature of it? Is it a crime?”

“I’m sorry,” she answered apologetically. “I would like to tell you more, but that has to be for your son to decide. Please don’t jump to any conclusions,” she added. “I’m here on a fact-finding mission, nothing more.” On his unhappy look, she continued, “I understand your concern as a father, but he’s an adult, so this has to be strictly between the two of us, only. If he wants to talk to you about it, that’s up to him. But there are legal and ethical procedures I have to adhere to.”

“I guess I’ll have to wait until tomorrow, then.” He sounded put-off and a bit defensive.

“I’m afraid so.”

“But he’s not in any trouble. Personally,” he asked again.

She put her half-finished beer down next to his. “I’m sorry, Mr. Baumgartner. I can’t say anything more about it.” She picked up her purse. “I’ll come back tomorrow morning. When you see your son, tell him I’ll be here at ten.”

She would fight the traffic and go home, then come back tomorrow. She could take Pacific Coast Highway; it would still be crowded, but at least it would be scenic. She’d wasted half a day on this bullshit. It had happened before, and would again. You have to roll with the punches.

“If that isn’t convenient,” she added pointedly, “I’d appreciate a call in advance. I don’t want to drive down here again for nothing.” She stood up. “Thanks for the beer. I can see myself out.”

He jumped to his feet. “Please. I apologize for my pushiness. This isn’t your fault.” He smiled disarmingly. “I’d like to provide accommodations for you for tonight. You don’t want to drive back to Santa Barbara and then back down here and back again. My tab, of course.”

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”

“It’s the least I can do,” he said. “Please.”

For a moment, she wavered. Then she thought, why the hell not? She didn’t relish the extra round trip, and his son had stiffed her. He certainly could afford a hotel room for a night.

“Okay,” she told him. “I’ll take you up on that offer.”

He smiled again. “Good.” He glanced at his watch. A Rolex, she noted; what else? “Do you have dinner plans?” he asked, after a check of her left hand to see that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

Of course she didn’t. Her plan had been to interview Peter Baumgartner, talk to this man and Peter’s mother if it could be arranged, and go home.

“No,” she answered, “since I wasn’t expecting on staying overnight. But I don’t want to intrude on yours. I’m sure you and your wife have already made your own.” Some party, undoubtedly, with Jack Nicholson and Tom Cruise. Maybe Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins, if they were in town.

He continued to smile. “Nope, no plans. I thought I’d be having dinner with my son. And I won’t be having dinner with my wife. We’re divorced.”

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, pro forma.

He waved off her apology, his smile temporarily fading. “It’s ancient history.” He brightened again. “I’ll call the Hotel Bel-Air, it’s practically down the block. They can usually come up with a suite for me, even on short notice.”

A suite at the Bel-Air, she thought. What a treat that would be!

“We’ll figure it out over dinner,” he told her. “Any particular kind of food you prefer?”

Wow, this was fast. “I’m easy.”

“California cuisine? Do you like Michael’s?”

“I’ve never been there.”

“That’s right, you live in Santa Barbara. It’s an oldie, but a goodie. One of my favorites. They have a great California wine list.”

This had been fast. “I have to call my daughter,” she told him. “She’s expecting me home tonight.”

“How old is she?” he inquired politely.

“Eighteen. She’s a senior in high school. She’s fine being on her own overnight, but I need to touch base.”

“Don’t worry, Mom,” Sophia told Kate over the phone. “Of course I’ll be okay.” She listened for a minute. “I don’t know. Hang out with friends. Maybe have a dozen kids over here and get stoned and drunk.” She scrunched up her face. “I’m kidding, Mom. I don’t even have a dozen friends. Tina and a couple of other girls, at the most. Pizza and videos, really wild stuff.” She listened again. “I’m riding with Mrs. McCoy in the morning, so I may not be here when you get home. I’ll see you tomorrow night, Mom. Have fun.”

She hung up. Tina and pizza. What could be more boring? She had a much better way to spend the night. She picked the phone up again and dialed.

“Mrs. McCoy? It’s Sophia Blanchard. My mom’s out of town tonight, and since you like to ride early in the morning, I thought maybe I could spend the night there, if you have room for me.” She listened for a moment. “I can have dinner with you, sure. I’ll be there in a couple of hours, is that okay?” A smile spread across her face. “I’ll see you. Thanks.”

She showered, washed and conditioned her hair, carefully applied her makeup. She brushed her hair until it was gleaming, and took extra care to choose the right clothes. Casual, but a little sexier than usual. She packed an overnight bag with a nightgown, tomorrow’s riding clothes, deodorant, toothbrush, and hairbrush. Standing in front of the full-length mirror in her mother’s bedroom, she checked herself out. She looked good, if she did say so herself. Still young, but in all the important ways, a woman. A woman whose time had come to be with a man.

Kate floated through dinner, happy to let Warren orchestrate everything. Talk between them was easy. He told her about the trials and tribulations of his business and about vacations he’d taken—he was an avid sailor, he kept a fifty-nine-foot Hinckley sloop in the British Virgin Islands. She opened up more than she normally did, particularly on a first date (was this a real date, she wondered, or was he making the best of an unfortunate situation), telling him about her work, her past as a police officer with the Oakland PD, about her daughters and their successes. He listened attentively, and seemed to be genuinely interested in what she was telling him. She forgot about how they had gotten together, and relaxed.

The meal was a progression of delightful pleasures, with terrific wines to match. Kate knew her way around a wine list—Cecil, her last serious boyfriend, was a winemaker, so she’d had exposure to good wine—but still, she was knocked out by what they drank: Kistler chardonnay with their first courses, a Harlan Estate cabernet with the entrees, and to cap the evening off, a glass of Graham’s Vintage Port with their cappuccinos and dessert. She managed to steal a glimpse of the bill when the check arrived. The wine tab alone was over four hundred dollars.

Warren signed the check without checking the total. “I have a house account,” he explained casually.

They rode back to Bel-Air in his Aston Martin. Kate was tipsy. She wasn’t drunk by any means, but she wasn’t feeling any pain, either. She looked at her watch. It was after eleven. They had been at dinner for over three hours. When midnight comes is my coach going to turn into a pumpkin? Am I going to wake up from a beautiful dream?

Be in the moment, she reminded herself. She stretched back deeper in the seat and watched the night fly by.

Sophia sat across the small dining table from Steven, with Juanita between them on her left. Now that Steven was a local hero, Juanita felt comfortable relaxing the rules about having contact with Sophia; she would be a vigilant chaperone. She was certain that Kate would feel the same.

She had prepared a simple but delicious meal—buttermilk fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, homemade biscuits, and salad. They all drank iced tea. Dessert was apple cobbler with ice cream.

Steven pushed away from the table. “No
mas
.” He had eaten twice as much as either of the women. “If I didn’t work like a fieldhand every day, I’d be a blimp,” he said, grinning at Sophia. “As usual, perfect,” he complimented his grandmother.

“Thank you, Steven,” Juanita answered serenely. As he started to pick up their plates, she said, “You can have tonight off. Sophia and I will do the dishes.”

“Great!” He grinned at Sophia again. “You should come out here more often. I’m getting washerwoman’s hands from all the dishes I’ve been washing.”

“Very funny,” Juanita scolded him. “You can barely keep your room clean. What are you going to do now?”

“Watch the Lakers, if they’re on.” He shook his head in disgust. “They’re a farce. Golden State beat them like a redheaded stepchild last night. Golden State, for Christ’s sakes! And with Shaq leading the way, Miami’s wiping up the east.”

“Do you know what he’s talking about?” Juanita asked Sophia, in the conspiratorial tone women use with each other when they’re talking about men’s foibles. “Sports on television! What a waste, when there are so many great books to read. We’ve become a nation of couch potatoes.”

“I like basketball,” Sophia said, wanting Steven to know that she was on his side, and that she liked what he liked. “But I love to read,” she added quickly. “I always have a book in my face.” She got up and started clearing the table.

“Don’t worry about rinsing, the dishwasher does it for you,” Juanita told her. “Do you want to play Scrabble?”

“Sure,” Sophia answered diligently. She knew Juanita loved playing Scrabble.

“It’s good for your brain,” Juanita wise-counseled her. “Like doing crossword puzzles. There’s never been a case of Alzheimer’s in our family, and it’s because everyone read voraciously, and did the
New York Times
crossword puzzle religiously,” she proclaimed.

Sophia glanced over at Steven, who was sprawled out on the couch in front of the television set. A game was on, but she couldn’t tell what teams were playing. He was shaking his head and grinning.

She and Steven hadn’t had a moment alone together. Juanita had dragooned her into the kitchen as soon as she had arrived, so she could teach Sophia her special recipe for fried chicken. Two elements were critical, she explained carefully. The batter had to be light and fluffy, and the oil had to be hot. Sophia had listened diligently, but it was hard, because Steven kept drifting in and out of the house. Back from working out on the ranch for a late-afternoon snack. Out again to help Keith fix the engine on a tractor. Back in again to wash the grease off his hands and arms. Back out in a pair of shorts and Nike running shoes for his daily run through the hills and valleys of the property. Even now, when the fall weather was getting chilly in the evening, he ran without a shirt. Then back in again after the run, all sweaty now, for a shower. His body was lean, rock-hard. He didn’t look like he had an ounce of fat on him. A statue, Sophia thought as she ogled him. A masterpiece of flesh-and-blood art.

Steven turned the TV off with the remote. “How did they do?” Sophia asked, looking up from the Scrabble board. This was their second game. Juanita had won the first, but she was going to win this one. They only had a few tiles left, and all the high numbered ones, like Q and Z, that could turn a game around, had been used.

“They sucked, as usual,” he answered.

“Did they lose?”

“No, they won, but they still sucked. I can’t wait till I get home and can watch the Suns.” He stretched and yawned. “I’m going to turn in.” He came over and kissed Juanita on the cheek. “Night, Gram.”

“Good night, darling,” she said, keeping her eyes on the board, still trying to figure a way to eke out a win. Sophia was a good player, better than most. She had a good head on her shoulders, this one.

Steven smiled at Sophia. “See you.” He paused. “In the morning.”

“See you,” she said back to him. “Thanks for letting me use your room.”

“No biggie. The horses will whinny me to sleep.”

Steven was sleeping in the stable tonight, in a small room in the back that had a bed, which had been used years ago when the ranch had a full-time stable hand. It was rustic, but comfortable. He was sleeping out there, rather than in the house, because Juanita didn’t think it was proper for him to spend the night under the same roof as Sophia. It was intuitive on her part: until Steven’s trial was over and he had been cleared, he shouldn’t be sleeping in the same space with a young girl like Sophia. She worried about any smell of impropriety. If those noisy detectives found out about it, it could mean trouble for Steven. She couldn’t put her finger on “why,” precisely. But she trusted her intuition. It had served her well for seventy-six years.

Steven went out. Juanita and Sophia sat up a while longer, drinking herb tea and talking about the play. Then they said good night to each other. Sophia changed into her nightgown, used the bathroom, and went into Steven’s room. Juanita had put clean sheets on the bed, which smelled of laundry detergent. She lay on the bed on top of the covers, waiting.

“There wasn’t a suite available. I hope this is all right.”

They were in her room at the Hotel Bel-Air. It was a large single, with French doors that led to a small outdoor patio. This is the most posh hotel I’ve ever been in in my life, she thought, and he’s apologizing?

“It’ll do,” she told him. She couldn’t keep back her smile. “It’s lovely.”