Death by Surprise (Carolyn Hart Classics) (18 page)

El Pajarito is on the outskirts of La Luz and overlooks the sea. It sounded very appealing, the quiet and elegance, and the distance from the pressures that would push at me once I went back to my office.

“I’d like that.”

It was early and we had the terrace overlooking the water to ourselves. We had a very private table with a vine-covered trellis between us and the other tables. The sweet scent of the vines mingled with the damp sea air.

“I noticed that the maitre d’ led us here without a question. Do you come often?”

“This is my table. It’s always held for me.”

He said it matter-of-factly, sure of himself and his place in the world.

The waiter hovered near by and we made our choices quickly, ordering beer and the specialty of the day, red snapper
a la veracruz.

The beer came in icy bottles beaded with water. I took a deep drink, savored the light, slightly acrid taste.

“I’ve been on the phone, finding out what I could. For starters, the cops are sure Carlisle’s the killer. The investigation is over except for what they can pile up against him.”

The brisk breeze off the sea rustled the vines behind us. It was a lonely sound, as lonely as the dull roar of breakers. I looked at Harry in dismay. He was telling me there wasn’t any hope for Kenneth, that it was cut-and-dried so far as the police were concerned.

If Kenneth were innocent, no one was doing anything about it.

Francine’s killer was home free.

Unless I could find him.

The only way I could find him was through Francine. I pulled my legal pad out of my briefcase.

“Okay, Harry,” I said grimly, “what have you got?”

Much of it was repetitive, the same personal history of Francine that Pamela Reeves had produced. He did have one interesting fact. Francine worked at the Cocoa Butter from the time she was fired from the LA paper until she came to La Luz. So she had given up her night club job to write the article on the Carlisles.

“I called Fred Sheltie, the managing editor of
Inside Out,”
Harry explained. “She showed up in his office about seven weeks ago and said she had a great idea for a story on a very well-known California family. Of course, the Carlisles aren’t in a class with the Hearsts or Chandlers, but they are well enough known for the idea to interest Fred. She told him just enough so that he thought it had real possibilities, especially since Kenneth was running for Congress. He told her she could submit it on a freelance basis.”

It was clear Francine had zeroed in on the Carlisles on her own hook, not at the instigation of the magazine. It suggested some kind of contact with the family, or, at the least, someone who knew a great deal about us.

The waiter brought our plates then, steam rising from the fish with its thin red sauce. I peppered my salad and wondered whether Pamela had done any more looking for me. I needed a clearer picture of Francine’s circle of acquaintances. Somewhere among the people she knew must be a link to the Carlisles.

I realized then that Harry was still talking and I hadn’t heard a word of it.

“Sorry. What did you say?”

“I just said it was odd, but the police so far hadn’t found any trace of a story on the Carlisles in her papers or tapes.”

I laid my fork down and stared at Harry. “Nothing on the family? Nothing at all?”

“Just a list of the Carlisles she intended to interview. All of the names had check marks by them.”

Oh yes, she had talked to all of us, she had indeed.

The room where she died had shown evidences of search. Was that what had been taken, the manuscript?

I suppose my relief was evident.

Harry’s cool grey eyes narrowed. “So that was the game. She was up to her old tricks?”

I hesitated, but, hell, it was obvious if he thought about it.

“Yes. She was offering not to print her most interesting tidbits—for a price.”

“How much?”

“Fifty thousand. From each of us.”

“That could add up to a nice sum.”

I had never totaled it, but Harry was right. If all of us had been willing to pay her off, she would have scored big. I added it up in my mind, me, Kenneth, Priscilla, Edmond, Travis, and Grace. Three hundred thousand dollars. Not bad pay for a beginner.

“If Farris finds out about the story, it will pretty well close the gate on your cousin.”

I suppose my alarm must have shown.

Harry reached across the table, took my hand. “Don’t look like that. If I’m asked, I don’t know a damn thing—except what I read in the newspapers.”

His hand was warm and strong, a link to a saner world, but a reminder too that I didn’t now belong in that world, the world where the police could be counted on to look for killers. I was committed to hiding ugly facts and twisting and turning to try and find a way out of danger for Kenneth.

I felt suddenly very tired and very alone.

“What are you going to do, K.C.? Hire a private detective?”

“I’m not sure, Harry.” I told him about John Solomon and Pamela. “The most important thing is to find out who might have taken Kenneth’s scarf.”

The possibilities were terribly limited. All those who had access to it had motives. That was the hell of it. They all had motives and they were all Carlisles.

“From Carlisle’s office or from your mother’s house, is that right?” Harry asked.

I nodded.

Harry understood my dilemma.

If I set out to seek Francine’s murderer to save Kenneth, I might substitute one kin for another in the prisoner’s dock.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

After lunch, the chauffeur drove us to my office. As I got out of the car, Harry said, “Be careful.”

“I will, Harry.”

“I’ll call you soon.”

“Please do.” I meant it.

I liked him although I don’t suppose many people would find him likable. He was aloof and self-assured, certain always to follow his own inclinations. I understood that. I was thinking of the kindness he had shown me, the help he had offered me, despite the estrangement of our families. I was tired and worried but smiling, and totally unprepared for what awaited me in my office.

Greg was standing just inside the door and he was furious.

“Who the hell was that?” He grabbed my arm.

Pat took one look and slowly rose from behind his desk. He looked at me questioningly.

“It’s all right, Pat,” I said quickly. “You’re hurting my arm, Greg.”

Greg dropped my arm but stood, pugnacious and scowling, looming over me.

“Greg, for heaven’s sake, what’s the matter with you?”

“Who’s your friend in the chauffeur-driven limousine?”

“He is not exactly a friend.”

“Oh, more than that?”

“It’s Harry Nichols. The owner of
The Beacon”
I didn’t like standing in my office foyer, explaining myself. “Come on in my office,” I said impatiently.

I shut the office door behind us and walked on to my desk. Greg stood just inside the door, anger clear in the taut line of his body.

“When did you start running around with him?”

I dropped into my chair. “I don’t,” I said coolly “run around with anybody, Greg. If you read the newspapers, you might know that Nichols and I happened on Francine’s body at almost the same time last night.”

Greg stared at me. “You didn’t call last night. I waited and waited. You find a body and you don’t even call me. Were you out with him?”

There was no question who Greg meant.

“As a matter of fact, yes. He offered to buy me a drink after the police let us go. I accepted.”

“You should have called me,” he repeated stubbornly. “You didn’t call this morning. I canceled a campaign trip. I came here. I called your apartment. I went down to the courthouse but I missed you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said contritely. “But everything’s happened so quickly. I had to help Kenneth. I went to his house after he was arrested last night, then to the jail. I represented him at the arraignment this morning.”

“What were you doing with Nichols again this morning?”

“He’s offered to help me. He had found out some things about Francine and he wanted to tell me.”

“I’m the one who can help you,” Greg said quickly. “I know a hell of a lot more about these things than Nichols.”

Greg was right there. He had been DA before Jack Kerry. Greg had prosecuted a dozen murder trials.

“I know, Greg. And I’m counting on you. You know that.”

The hard tight lines around Greg’s mouth eased. “Hell, K.C., I’m sorry,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t mean to lose my temper, but I was just about to go crazy with worry over you. Last night, I was worried sick. You didn’t call and didn’t call. I rang your apartment. I even went by but you weren’t there. I didn’t know what to think.”

I had probably just missed Greg. I got back to my apartment about three a.m. and collapsed into an uneasy sleep for a few hours before I was up and arranging bond, should it be approved, and planning for the arraignment.

“This morning,” Greg continued, “when I saw all this stuff in the papers, I couldn’t believe you hadn’t called me.

He came to me, pulled me up out of my chair and held me hard against him. “Jesus, K.C., you should have called.”

Abruptly, he kissed me, his mouth hard and demanding against mine. The fatigue that dulled my mind and body burned away and I was, suddenly, kissing him in return and there was a wild surge of excitement between us. Then, in an ugly twist of memory, I could hear Grace’s voice, “Perhaps we could buy you a stud farm,” and I was abruptly as limp and cold as seaweed left behind by the outgoing tide.

“K.C.?”

I gave his arm a quick squeeze and slipped out of his embrace. I brushed my hair from my face. “I’m sorry, Greg, I’m very tired.” I was tired. I had slept perhaps four hours after finally getting home from the jail. The arraignment and the crush of reporters had taken a further toll. I ached with fatigue.

“K.C.,” he said gruffly, “I didn’t mean to make things harder. It’s just that you mean so much to me.”

For the first time since I had known Greg, I felt that I was hearing him speak without any pretense. There was always so much ebullience in him. Now he spoke quietly, opening himself to me.

I looked into his eyes, dark commanding eyes now strangely uncertain. I almost told him that I cared, too. Yet, damn Grace, was it caring or passion with me? Greg was incredibly exciting.

I hesitated and the moment was gone.

I did say quickly, too quickly, after that long silence, “I wish we could go somewhere, the two of us, get out of all of this.”

Now he hesitated. That was impossible. For both of us.

“Yeah,” he said heavily. “That would be nice, but . . .” Then he said awkwardly, “Well, look, K.C., I’m sorry about your cousin. I hope . . . I hope everything works out.”

“Thank you, Greg.”

He frowned. “Don’t take it wrong, K.C. I know you’re a damn good lawyer, but I believe, if I were you, I’d get Pinella.”

I nodded. “If it comes to a trial, Greg, that’s what we’ll do.”

“If it comes to a trial?” he repeated.

“Yes. You see, Greg, Kenneth is innocent. I’m sure of it. I’m going to be working on it, finding out more about Francine.”

He wished me luck before he left and we talked about getting together later in the week, except he had some heavy campaigning to do. It was a little stilted and I felt let down after he left. Then I shrugged it away. Greg and I could patch it up, I was sure of it, and, right now, Kenneth needed my thoughts.

I told Pat to hold my calls and remake all appointments for next week. I settled down to work.

In an hour, I had it laid out—and it looked bad for the Carlisles.

Item: Boutelle came to La Luz to write the Carlisle story.

Item: To our knowledge, Boutelle had no other contacts in La Luz.

Item: She was strangled with Kenneth’s silk scarf.

That, of course, was the whammy.

If her head had been smashed by a poker, we could reasonably imagine her attacker to be anyone, a maniac stranger who happened to pick her as a victim, a neighbor irritated by her cat, a door-to-door salesman overcome by the lust to kill, a devil-ridden evangelist with homicidal tendencies.

It was impossible that any of the above could have come into possession of Kenneth’s scarf.

What did we know about the scarf?

Item: Kenneth wore it to work Monday. He did not think of it again until leaving Grace’s house Monday evening. When he reached into his pocket, the scarf was gone.

Conclusion: The scarf could have been taken by anyone at Kenneth’s office or by anyone at Grace’s house that evening. The latter included me, Priscilla, Grace, Edmond and Sue, and Travis and Lorraine.

I read my notes and reread them. So far as I could figure, there was only one possible killer other than a Carlisle. And he was a very slender possibility, indeed, because I could imagine no way that he could have obtained the scarf. But I decided to start my search with him. I would turn back into the family only when that was my only recourse.

I leaned back in my chair. I must remember exactly what Francine had said, that night we talked.

I had been tired then, too, tired from the long drive home from Rosemont and it had taken me a little while to realize that Francine Boutelle wasn’t an investigative reporter. She had begun by talking about the Levy case, claiming Dad had accepted a bribe. She pointed to Albert Gersten, Sonia Levy’s nephew, as the bagman. I concentrated furiously. Boutelle got her information from Gersten’s ex-wife. What was her name? Veronica? No. Victoria? No. Natalie. That was it, Natalie Gersten.