White Lies (15 page)

She left the entranceway, walked to where the gold Jaguar was parked and looked through the windows. She had no idea what she expected to see.

A crumpled white terrycloth turban lay on the floor on the passenger side. It looked as if someone had discarded it hurriedly, perhaps while fleeing the scene of an attempted murder.

Clare’s stomach fluttered unpleasantly. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, she thought. She had known, deep down, that the intruder in the Tropical Experience Chamber was Valerie. Nevertheless, the little piece of confirming evidence was disturbing.

Morbid curiosity compelled her to walk across the driveway to the three-car garage.

One of the garage doors was open, revealing an empty space that was no doubt meant for the Jaguar.

She stepped into the shadowy gloom, took off her sunglasses and surveyed the interior.

The second space inside the garage was also empty. But parked in the third space at the far end was a large, silver-gray SUV. It was identical to the one that had nearly run her down in the mall garage.

A shivery sensation swept through her. She had to remind herself to breathe.

She left the garage, wondering what to do next. Two of the Shipleys’ three vehicles were here. Owen was probably gone, but the odds were that Valerie was inside the house, not answering the door.

What would an alcoholic most likely do after a failed attempt at murder?

Go home and have a stiff drink or two or six, Clare decided. Actually, it seemed like a reasonable thing for anyone to do under such circumstances.

She stopped and looked toward the far end of the breezeway that separated the house from the garage. She could see a wrought-iron gate set in the high stone wall that enclosed the pool terrace and garden behind the house.

Just beyond the terrace and gardens she could see the emerald green expanse of one of the fairways of the Stone Canyon Golf Course. There was only one cart in sight. It was some distance away on another fairway. Arizona golfers were a hardy lot but the relentless afternoon sun had proved too much for most of them today.

The wrought-iron gate was no doubt intended for the use of the gardeners and pool service people, Clare thought. It was very likely alarmed.

But maybe not at this time of day, especially if someone is home.

She contemplated her options. Forcing her way into the house was not only a good way to get arrested, it could also get her shot, especially here in Arizona, where owning a gun was a common lifestyle choice.

She walked to the gate, stopped and looked through the decorative curlicues and spikes. From where she stood she could see the gracefully curved pool.

There was someone in the bright, flashing water.

Valerie Shipley was not swimming. In fact, she was not moving at all. She was not wearing a bathing suit, either. She was fully clothed, in a pair of white pants and a sleeveless top.

She was floating facedown.

The gate was unlocked. Clare opened it reluctantly. She did not want to check the body. She would rather have done anything else. But you were supposed to make certain in situations like this and there was no one else around to do what had to be done.

She dropped her purse and phone beside the pool and waded into the water. She knew as soon as she touched the body that Valerie was dead but she nevertheless checked carefully for a pulse. There was none.

That was enough, she told herself. She did not owe this woman anything more.

She climbed back up the pool steps. Dripping wet, she opened the door of the small cabana. There was a stack of clean towels on a rack. She helped herself to one. When her hands were dry, she left the cabana and made the 911 call.

“There’s an aid car on the way,” the operator assured her. There was a distinct pause. “Did you say your name is Clare Lancaster, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

Clare Lancaster, Stone Canyon’s all-purpose suspect.

She ended the call, finished drying herself off as well as she could and then went inside the house to unlock the door for the medics.

There was a cell phone on the white stone coffee table next to a half-empty pitcher of martinis.

It would be a few minutes before the aid car arrived, Clare thought. She grabbed a couple paper napkins off the liquor cabinet and used them to pick up the phone.

It probably wasn’t legal to take a quick look at the victim’s phone log but she promised herself she would be very careful not to taint any evidence.

After a moment she realized she needed a pen and paper to jot down the numbers. She went back outside to get the items from her purse.

She was disappointed to discover that there were no calls, either incoming or outgoing, logged for that day. So much for being a psychic detective, she thought.

She could hear sirens in the distance. She still had a couple minutes. Unable to think of anything else to do, she jotted down numbers that Valerie had stored in the cell’s phone book.

“Don’t leave the motel,” Jake ordered, speaking into his cell phone. “It will take me about half an hour to get there. Stay right where you are.”

“I’m sorry,” Clare said, sounding unutterably weary. “But I’m going to have to cancel our arrangement for this evening. I don’t think I’d make very good company for dinner.”

Jake was on his feet, heading toward the door of his office.

“Forget it,” he said. “A dinner date strikes me as the least of your concerns at the moment.”

There was a short pause on the other end.

“Things aren’t that bad,” Clare said, rallying somewhat. “They didn’t arrest me or anything. Actually, there are two schools of thought at the moment. One holds that Valerie got drunk, fell into the pool and drowned. The other theory is that she committed suicide. They’re going to do an autopsy to test for drugs.”

“I’m on my way.”

“It’s okay, Jake, really. Elizabeth is here with me.”

“In that case, both of you stay put.”

He ended the call and paused in front of the administrative assistant’s desk.

Brenda Wilson regarded him with her customary severely serene expression. She was sixty years old, athletic-looking and unmarried. As far as Jake had been able to determine, she was dedicated to her job. Early on in their relationship she had informed him quite proudly that she had worked for the company for over thirty years. She had started out as Owen Shipley’s secretary.

“Something has come up,” Jake told her. “I’ll be out of the office for the rest of the afternoon. Hold all my calls.”

“Yes, Mr. Salter,” Brenda said crisply. “I assume this has something to do with the death of Mrs. Shipley?”

“You never fail to amaze me, Brenda. I just got the news five minutes ago. When did you hear it?”

“Four minutes ago, while you were on the phone. Mr. Glazebrook’s assistant called to tell me the tragic news.”

“Is Glazebrook still in his office?”

“No, he left shortly before noon. Said he wanted to go home and work on some special project.”

“See you on Monday, Brenda.”

“Have a good weekend, sir.”

“Something tells me it’s going to be a very long and complicated weekend.”

“Things are always complicated when Clare Lancaster is involved,” Brenda said.

The prim, suppressed anger in Brenda’s tone stopped him cold. He turned back to face her.

“Is there anything you think I should know, Brenda?” he asked quietly.

She picked up a stack of printouts and tapped the papers briskly against the desktop to square them. “Rumor has it that it was Clare Lancaster who found Mrs. Shipley’s body in the pool.”

“I heard that.” He waited.

Brenda cleared her throat. “By a strange coincidence it was Miss Lancaster who found the body of Mrs. Shipley’s son, Brad, six months ago.”

“Heard that, too. I get the impression that you don’t believe in coincidence, Brenda.”

“No, sir, I don’t.” She put the tightly squared stack of papers down and folded her competent hands on top of the pile. “Neither does anyone else around here. Not when the coincidence involves Clare Lancaster.”

He went deliberately back across the room and stopped in front of her desk.

“I won’t tell you what to think, Brenda,” he said. “But I want to make it very, very clear that it would be a good idea if you kept your opinions of Miss Lancaster and the subject of coincidence to yourself.”

Brenda went rigid. “Yes, sir.”

He left, heading for the parking lot. He wondered what Brenda would have had to say if she knew that her tidy little condo was one of the many residences he had searched during his short stay in Stone Canyon. Unfortunately, he hadn’t turned up evidence of anything other than a life devoted to work and office gossip.

Jake’s phone rang just as he got out of the BMW and started toward the lobby of the Desert Dawn Motel. He recognized the number.

“Hello, Archer,” he said.

“Where the hell are you? I just talked to Brenda. She said you left for the day and that it had something to do with Clare.”

“As usual, Brenda is on top of the situation.” Jake paused at the door. He did not want to have this conversation in front of the desk clerk. “I’m at Clare’s motel.”

“You’re already at the airport?” Archer sounded startled. “You made damn good time, especially in Friday rush hour traffic.”

“Got lucky,” Jake said. “Traffic wasn’t as bad as usual.”

“You heard what happened?” Archer demanded.

“Yes. Where are you?”

“I’m on my way to the Shipley house. This is not a good situation, Jake. Not after what happened six months ago. I’ve already had calls from the local reporters.”

“Don’t give them anything,” Jake said.

“You think I’m stupid? Of course I’m not taking the damned calls. What’s worrying me is that I haven’t been able to get in touch with Clare. She’s not answering her cell phone.”

“I’ll let her know you want to talk to her,” Jake said.

“What’s the name of her motel? I’ll try her there.”

“You’re breaking up, Archer. I can’t hear you. I’ll get back to you later.”

“Hold on, damn it—”

Jake ended the call and walked into the lobby. The desk clerk looked up.

“Another night, huh?” he asked.

“No,” Jake said. “Miss Lancaster won’t be staying tonight, either. Get her bill ready. She’ll be checking out shortly.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jake loped up the stairs to the second floor.

Elizabeth opened the door to 210.

“Jake.” Relief lit her eyes. “Thank goodness you’re here. Talk about a bad day at Black Rock.”

The sliding glass door at the far end of the room was open, letting in the last of the late afternoon heat. The window-box air conditioner hummed mightily but it was a losing battle. The room was close and stifling.

He could see Clare out on the tiny balcony, gripping the railing with both hands. She appeared to be riveted by whatever was going on in the pool area below.

“How is she?” he asked quietly.

“Exhausted,” Elizabeth said softly.

Clare straightened abruptly and turned her head to glare at Elizabeth and Jake through the dark shield of her sunglasses.

“For Pete’s sake,” she said briskly. “There’s no need to act like this is an intensive care unit. You don’t have to discuss my condition in hushed tones. I’m fine.”

“Tough as nails, isn’t she?” he observed to Elizabeth.

“They breed them hardy up there in San Francisco.”

Clare made a rude noise.

“Don’t let the attitude fool you.” Elizabeth closed the door. “She puts on a great act but the truth is, she’s been through a lot today.”

“Finding a dead body can have that effect on a person,” he agreed.

Elizabeth gave him a long, considering look. He got the feeling that she had come to some momentous decision.

“Especially when the dead body in question is that of the woman who tried to brain you with an eight-pound dumbbell a couple of hours earlier,” Elizabeth said.

“I think,” Jake said, “that the three of us need to talk.”

“I won’t lie to you, Archer. I can’t. We’ve been friends for too long.” Owen leaned forward in the white leather chair and rested his elbows on his spread knees. He gazed through the wall of windows, contemplating the sparks of sunlight on the swimming pool. “It’s a terrible thing to say but part of me felt a sense of relief when they told me what had happened. My first thought was, at least there won’t be any more scenes.”

“She was in a bad way.” Archer carried the glass of whiskey he had just poured across the white carpet and put it into Owen’s hand.

Owen looked down at the drink as if surprised to see it there. “She was my wife. I failed her. I should have got her into rehab.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over this.” Archer sat down across from him. “You did your best. Myra said Valerie refused to even consider rehab.”

Owen swallowed some of the whiskey and cradled the glass in both hands. “She got so upset whenever I tried to talk about it. I suggested she see a therapist, someone from the Society who would understand the sensitive side of her nature and help her process her grief.”

Archer wasn’t sure what to say so he sat quietly, just trying to be there for the man who had been his partner and friend for so many years.

Owen drank his whiskey. After a while he put down the glass.

“It was suicide,” he said. “Not an accident.”

Archer looked at him. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. She talked about it the night she pushed Clare into the pool. She said she could not stand the sight of her son’s killer. Said knowing that Clare was right here in Stone Canyon, acting as if nothing had happened, was too much to bear.”

“Clare did not murder Brad.”

Owen sighed. “You and I know that, Archer. But Valerie was obsessed, and I think starting to become delusional. To tell you the truth, I was about to warn you that Clare might be in danger from her.”

Archer frowned. “You think she was becoming dangerous?”

“I believe so. Yes.”

A tiny chime sounded. They both looked at Owen’s high-tech watch.

Owen got to his feet. “It’s time for my shot. I’ll be right back.”