White Lies (4 page)

“Family,” Jake said. “Gotta love ’em.”

She smiled and drank some more water.

“The situation with your relatives isn’t the only complication you’ve got in your life, is it?” Jake lounged back in the chair and stretched out his legs. “You’re a level-ten parasensitive with a rather unique talent.”

She stilled. “You know?”

“That you’re a human lie detector? Yeah. I did some background research on the family before I took this job. I may not have all the facts but I think I know the basics. Must be tough at times. People lie a lot, don’t they?”

“Yes,” she said. “All the time, in fact.”

She wondered if he had been testing her earlier when he gave her his name or if he thought he could beat her sensitivity. Maybe he just didn’t give a damn if she knew that he was lying. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that was probably the right answer.

“What’s your sensitivity?” she asked.

Jake didn’t answer. He turned his head to look back toward the house.

“Damn,” he said softly.

She followed his gaze and saw a stick-thin woman silhouetted against the lights of the house.

The woman hesitated. Clare realized she was searching for someone. With luck she would not think to check the heavily shadowed sitting area on the far side of the pool.

But at that moment the woman started purposefully forward. It was obvious that she was making for the table. So much for luck, Clare thought. Hers was not in good form tonight.

“Valerie Shipley,” Jake said.

“I know. Just what I need to make my evening complete.” Resigned, Clare put down the uneaten portion of a small taco.

“You know her?” Jake asked

“I met her once. That was the night her son, Brad McAllister, was murdered.”

“McAllister was your sister’s husband, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” She watched uneasily as Valerie came toward them with an unsteady gait. This was going to get ugly.

“Just so you know,” Jake said quietly, “Valerie drinks. A lot. I’m told the problem started after her son’s death.”

“Elizabeth said something about it.”

Valerie stopped near the edge of the pool. She had a glass in one hand. Clare could see that she was tottering on her high heels.

Valerie was in her late fifties with dyed blond hair cut in a sleek bob. Six months ago she had looked fit and healthy. Tonight she appeared almost emaciated in her tight cocktail dress. The bones of her face were knife edges; the hollows of her cheeks were very deep.

“I can’t believe you had the gall to walk into this house tonight, you murderous bitch,” Valerie said. The words were slurred but the rage embedded in them was unmistakable.

Clare got to her feet. Beside her, Jake did the same.

“Hello, Mrs. Shipley,” Clare said.

“Who’s that with you?” Valerie peered into the shadows beneath the ramada. “Is that you, Jake?”

“Yes,” Jake said. “I think it would be a good idea for you to go back inside, Mrs. Shipley.”

“Shut up. You work for Archer. You don’t tell me what to do.” Valerie turned back to Clare. “You don’t give a damn about the pain you’ve caused me, do you? You think you can waltz back here to Stone Canyon as if nothing happened.”

Clare started slowly toward her.

“No,” Jake said in a low voice.

Clare ignored him and came to a halt at the edge of the pool, facing Valerie.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Shipley,” Clare said.

“You’re sorry?” Valerie’s voice rose, anguish and fury inextricably mingled. “How dare you say that after what you did.You murdered my son and everyone inside that house knows it. ”

Without warning, she dashed the contents of her glass across Clare’s face.

Clare gasped and closed her eyes. Instinctively she took a step back.

Valerie gave an inarticulate cry of rage. Clare opened her eyes in time to see the other woman coming straight at her, arms outstretched. In the eerie glow of the underwater lights, Valerie’s face was a demonic mask.

Jake was closing in with astonishing speed. He caught Valerie’s arm before she could strike but Clare had already taken another step back to evade the blow. The heel of her black pump found nothing but air to support her.

She toppled sideways into the pool with an ignominious splash.

At least the water was warm, she thought as she went under. On the rare occasions when she was in Glazebrook Territory, she was grateful for whatever luck came her way.

Jake looked at Valerie Shipley’s twisted features.

“That’s enough,” he ordered. “Go back inside. I’ll take care of this.”

She jerked her attention away from the sight of Clare surfacing in the pool.

“Stay out of this, Salter,” she hissed. “It has nothing to do with you. That whore tried to seduce my son. When that failed, she murdered him.”

“Valerie?” Owen Shipley hurried toward his wife. “What’s going on?”

Valerie started to cry. “The bitch came back here. I can’t believe it. She actually came back. After what she did, it’s not right.”

She covered her face with both hands, whirled unsteadily and rushed toward the veranda.

Owen came to a halt. He was an athletic man in his early sixties with strong features and a ring of neatly trimmed gray hair. Under most circumstances he appeared relaxed and confident. But at the moment he looked awkward and helpless.

Jake felt some sympathy for him. Years ago Shipley had helped Archer found Glazebrook, Inc. The two men had been partners for nearly three decades until Archer bought out Owen’s share of the business. The pair were still close friends and golfing buddies.

A year ago Owen met and married Valerie. It was a second marriage for both of them. Archer had told Jake that Owen and Valerie had met through the auspices of arcanematch.com. Jake had a hunch that the matchmaking computers at Arcane House, designed to help single members of the Society find life partners from among the community of sensitives, had failed to allow for the possibility that Valerie would morph into a full-blown alcoholic. It wasn’t the first time arcanematch had made a mistake.

“I’m sorry,” Owen said heavily. He looked at Clare. “Are you all right?”

Clare stood shoulder-deep in the water. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Shipley.”

“Are you certain?” Owen asked.

“Yes,” she said, her voice gentling. “It was an accident. I lost my balance and fell into the pool.”

Owen’s features tightened. “Valerie hasn’t been herself since Brad was murdered.”

“I know,” Clare said.

“I’ve been trying to get her to go into rehab. But she refuses.”

“I understand,” Clare said.

Owen nodded humbly. “Thank you.” He looked back toward the house. Valerie had disappeared into the shadows of the veranda. “I’d better take her home.”

He walked back toward the house, shoulders slumped.

Jake waited until he was gone. Then he went to stand at the edge of the pool.

Clare flung her wet hair out of her eyes and looked at him, hands moving rhythmically under the surface.

“Don’t say it,” she warned.

“Can’t help myself.” He crouched down on the coping. “I did warn you not to confront her.”

She made a face. “I thought consultants were supposed to do something helpful and productive in a moment of crisis.”

“Right. Almost forgot.”

He rose, walked to the nearby cabana and opened the door. Inside he found a stack of oversized towels on a shelf. He picked up one and carried it back to the pool.

“How’s this for helpful?” he asked, unfolding the towel.

“Much better.”

She took a deep breath and dove back under the water to retrieve her shoes. When she surfaced again she trudged toward the wide steps where he waited.

“There’s a robe inside the cabana,” he said, draping the towel around her shoulders.

“Thanks.”

Clutching the towel, she made her way toward the small cabana. The black suit clung to her body, outlining her lush, rounded hips.

She stripped off her jacket just before she reached the door. The thin, pale silk shell she wore underneath had been rendered transparent by the water. Jake could see the straps of a dainty bra.

She disappeared inside the cabana. He considered his options. There was no question now but that Clare Lancaster was a spanner that had just been thrown into the works of his carefully crafted scheme. He had to decide how to deal with her, but first he needed more information.

The cabana door opened. Clare walked out muffled from head to toe in a thick white terrycloth robe. Her hair was wrapped in a towel. She carried her sopping-wet clothes in one hand and her soaked shoes in the other.

“I think the party’s over for me,” she said. She paused at the table to pick up her shoulder bag.

“Looks that way,” he agreed. “I’ll take you home.”

“Hotel,” she corrected automatically. “I don’t live around here, remember?”

A small shock of awareness slammed through him. Talk about a slip of the tongue. He had spoken without thinking, meaninghis home, or rather the house he rented. What the hell was that about? Probably something to do with seeing her in a robe and knowing that she was naked underneath the pristine white terrycloth.

“I’ll take you back to your hotel,” he said.

“Thanks, anyway, but I’ve got a car.”

“It’s not a problem. It will give me an excuse to leave early. Cocktail party chatter bores me.”

“Why come, in that case?”

He shrugged. “Archer invited me. He’s the client.”

She gave him an odd look. She knew he was lying to her, he thought. But he sensed that she wasn’t going to call him on it.

She was trying to figure him out, he realized. Fair enough. He was doing the same thing to her. He smiled slightly.

“What is so amusing?” she demanded crossly.

“We’re like a couple of fencers,” he said. “Testing each other’s defenses. Looking for openings. Makes for an interesting game, don’t you think?”

She went very still. “I didn’t come here to play games.”

“I know. But sometimes the game finds you.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Jake Salter, but whatever it is—”

He took her arm. “Let’s get you back to your hotel.”

“I told you, I’m fine. I can drive myself.”

“Be reasonable.” He steered her toward the veranda. “You’re soaked to the skin. You’ve had a long day. You’ve been through some family drama and a major scene with a woman who seems to hate your guts. On top of everything else, you probably don’t know your way around Phoenix very well. Let me take you back to your hotel.”

“No, thank you.” Polite but determined.

“You’re as stubborn as Archer.”

They reached the veranda. Clare halted abruptly and looked at the open doors.

“I’m not going to go back inside,” she said, glancing down at her robe. “Not like this.”

“No,” he agreed. He tightened his grip on her arm and drew her along the veranda. “We’ll go this way.”

He walked her around the side of the house. When they reached the crowded driveway Jake saw the parking attendant. The young man was hovering over Clare’s rented compact.

“Looks like my car is blocking another vehicle,” Clare said.

“That would be mine.”

She gave a small start and then smiled ruefully. “What are the odds, huh?”

“I figure maybe it was psychic karma.”

“You believe in psychic karma?”

“Didn’t until tonight,” he admitted. He didn’t like the way the attendant was studying Clare’s car. “I think we may have a problem.”

“What?” She looked up, keys in hand.

They were close to the compact now. Jake could see the spiderweb of cracks in the windshield. Clare noticed them a couple seconds later.

“Oh, damn,” she whispered. “The rental agency is not going to be happy about this.”

The attendant saw Jake. “I was just about to go talk to my boss.”

“What happened?” Clare asked.

“Mrs. Shipley came outside a little while ago,” the attendant said unhappily. “She wanted to know which car had arrived in the last half hour. I told her that it was this one.”

“Good grief,” Clare said. “What did she do to my windshield?”

“She, uh, smashed it with a rock,” the attendant said.

“Where is Mrs. Shipley?” Jake asked.

“Her husband came after her. Said he was going to take her home. He apologized and said to tell you that he’ll make things right with the rental company.”

Jake released Clare. “That settles it. You won’t be driving yourself back to the hotel tonight.” He took the keys from her unresisting fingers. “I’ll move your car so we can get mine out.”

She sighed, resigned now. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Psychic karma, remember?” He opened the door of the compact and got behind the wheel.

Clare waited, her hands stuffed into the pockets of the robe, while he switched the positions of the two vehicles. When he had reparked the compact, he settled Clare into the front seat of the BMW and went around to the driver’s side.

He got behind the wheel and drove down the drive and out onto the road that looped through the gated golf course community. The security guard waved him through the massive wrought-iron gates.

Clare looked out the window, evidently absorbed by the night and the lights of Phoenix in the distance.

“I knew that Brad McAllister was murdered six months ago,” he said after a while. “Archer mentioned that the cops believe he interrupted a burglary in progress at his home here in Stone Canyon.”

“That’s the official theory.” Clare did not turn her head away from the inky-dark view. “But as you may have noticed, Brad’s mother is convinced that I murdered her son. She’s had several months to promote her theory. I understand she’s been quite successful, although Elizabeth assures me that most people in Stone Canyon are very careful not to speculate too loudly in Archer’s hearing.”

“Archer sure as hell wouldn’t want that kind of gossip going around.”

She turned her head to look at him. “The police did question me, you know.”

“Be surprising if they didn’t. You were the one who found the body.”

“Yes.”

He glanced at her. She had gone back to studying the night.