Bones and Roses (11 page)

“Fair enough,” I concede.

“Okay, so tell me. What has you looking like you were dragged a mile roped to someone's rear bumper?”

I explain about my coming to Joan's aid, how I'd waited with her until the rescue squad arrived, lying flat on my belly at the edge of the cliff to maintain eye contact, when she'd been on the verge of losing it, while reassuring her that help was on the way. I also tell him about the argument I overheard prior and Joan's allegation after the fact. “For what it's worth, I don't think she was lying.”

“So you believe her story?” He seems surprised.

“I believe
she
believes it.”

“Even though she didn't see him push her?”

“You know the expression: If you see bear tracks in the snow, do you need to see the bear to know it was there?”

He nods and sips his coffee. “I take your point. That still doesn't prove anything.”

“No, but if she
was
pushed, Douglas Trousdale would be my number one suspect. He has the motive. With her dead he'd get to keep all the money and he wouldn't have to wait to take his next trip down the aisle. Also, from what I heard of it, their argument was pretty heated.”

Spence nods thoughtfully. His next question takes me by surprise. “Do you think he did it?”

I pause as I'm tearing open a sugar packet, looking up at him. “Excuse me? Did you just ask for my opinion?”

His mouth slants in a wry smile. “Off the record.”

I dump the sugar in my coffee and stir it in. “Okay, here's what I think: While I don't doubt Mr. Trousdale would love nothing more than to have Mrs. Trousdale conveniently die of natural causes, I can't quite see him pushing her over a cliff in a fit of rage, no.”

“Why not?”

“He's not the type. We're talking about a guy who color-coordinates the shirts in his closet.”

“Sounds like you know him pretty well.”

“Not at all. But you get to know a lot about a person when you look after their home. The guy is anal is all I'm saying. I'm not exaggerating about the shirts. He even has his underwear ironed.”

He lifts an eyebrow at me. “You make a habit of going through your clients' underwear drawers?”

I give him a withering look. “No. Their housekeeper mentioned it is all.”

“I've known murderers who were fastidious. This one guy? He poisons his wife but saves the receipt from the hardware store where he bought the poison. He was an accountant and accountants don't toss receipts. Though I imagine an IRS audit is the least of his worries now that he's doing life.”

“Yeah, but he's not stupid—Mr. Trousdale, I mean. If he was looking to murder his wife, he'd hire a hit man. That's what rich people do. They outsource.”

“That doesn't always apply with crimes of passion.”

I'm reminded of Stan, and wonder again if that was how it went down with him and my mom. His prior for assault and battery shows he has a quick temper. Unlike Douglas, who's all business and no heat. “I still don't see it. He's a cold fish underneath his smiling salesman persona.”

“You never know what someone is capable of,” Spence remarks. “If I've learned one thing in my line of work, it's that human nature is like the ocean: We can only know a small part of it.”

“What about you? Have you ever been mad enough to hit someone?”
Me, for instance, after I set fire to your car.

“No, but I've made my wife mad enough to hit me on more than one occasion,” he says with a rueful smile. “In all fairness to Donna, she's had to put up with a lot through the years. When I was a rookie working nights and weekends, I told her things would be different once I made detective. Now I'm on call twenty-four-seven and she's a single parent to our kids, the way she sees it.”

“How old are your kids?” I hadn't known until now that he had any. Strange, that I know so little about the guy who affected my life and occupied so much of my thoughts when we were younger.

His expression softens. “Ryan's four; Katie's six. They take turns playing the holy terror, but they're the best thing that ever happened to me. It kills me that I don't get to see enough of them.” He's quiet for a moment as he sips his coffee, then he asks, “What about you? You never got the itch?”

“You mean did I ever want to get married or have kids? No on both counts. I have my hands full with my brother.”

“Or maybe you never met the right guy.”

“You know something,” I pause to look up at him as I tear open another sugar packet, “I believe this is the first actual conversation we've ever had. Let's not spoil it by getting too personal.”

He shrugs, and gestures toward my coffee as I'm pouring in the sugar. “Would you like a Danish with that?”

“I take my coffee sweet. What of it?” I snap.

“Tish.” He looks me in the eye. “Sometimes a Danish is just a Danish.”

Not until we're getting ready to leave does he broach the subject we've been avoiding so far. “So,” he says, leveling his gaze at me across the table. “Stan Cruikshank.”

I'm careful to speak in an even voice. “I was curious about him, so I went to see him, yeah.”

“You were interfering in a police investigation.”

“I didn't know he was a suspect.”

“He's not. Yet. We're still looking into it.”

“Is he even a person of interest, or are you just blowing smoke?”

He reaches into his wallet and throws a couple of bills on the table. “It's not as cut and dried as you think.”

“Why don't you explain it to me, then? I'm all ears.”

He drops his voice, though it's unlikely anyone is eavesdropping. We're the only patrons at this hour and our waitress is nowhere to be seen—I'm beginning to wonder if our Marilyn Monroe look-a-like was just another dead-celebrity sighting. “Look, the DA is up for re-election in the fall and he's not going to prosecute any cases he can't win. Even if I were to launch a full investigation, there simply isn't enough evidence to get a conviction. I'm sorry. That's just how it is.”

“Isn't it your job to find evidence? Stan knows something he's not telling, I'm sure of it.”

“I need more than your gut feeling to go on.”

“So I'm supposed to just wait around until he either confesses or some random witness materializes?”

“I didn't say I wasn't working on it. You just have to trust me.”

I snort. “When have you ever given me a reason to trust you?”

I see a flash of emotion in his Tidy-Bowl blue eyes. “Let's leave aside our personal differences,” he replies in a tight voice. “I'm asking—no,
telling—
you to back off. Let me do my job.”

“Do what you have to do.” I slide from the booth. “But I'm telling
you
I won't rest until I find out who killed my mom.”

CHAPTER NINE

First thing Monday morning I call to schedule an appointment with Seraphina at the Fontana Wellness Center. She's my only lead at this point, but she'd find it odd if I were to ask her to meet me for coffee, so I have no choice but to put my ass on the line. And I don't mean that figuratively. Woodward and Bernstein had Deep Throat. I'll simply be utilizing a different orifice.

I'm informed by the woman who takes my call that the colonic irrigation therapist had a last-minute cancellation and can squeeze me in that afternoon at two o'clock. I've never felt so unlucky to catch a lucky break. By the time I arrive at the wellness center, I'm a nervous wreck, my palms sweaty and my stomach in an uproar. This is so far out of my comfort zone it's in another galaxy. But I didn't come this far to wimp out, so I bite the bullet and fill out the form I'm given.

At least the setting is pleasant. The walls, the color of a sandy beach, are hung with landscapes painted by local artists. The furniture is Pottery Barn and colorful area rugs soften the effect of the commercial carpeting. The gentle sounds of Native American flute music waft from the speaker system. Within minutes of my arrival I'm ushered down a carpeted hallway to a treatment room with pale peach walls and a framed museum poster of Monet's
Water Lilies
. It holds a chair with a hospital gown folded over it and a padded table covered in a white sheet. An interior door leads to a small bathroom. I do my best to ignore the machine mounted to the wall by the table.

No sooner have I disrobed and donned the hospital gown than Seraphina enters. She greets me warmly. “Tish, hello. I didn't expect to see you again so soon. Now, no need to be nervous.” She gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. I must be ten shades of pale. “I promise you'll be glad you came. We have a saying here: Be kind to your body and it will repay the favor.”

“Um. I'll take your word for it.” I manage a smile.

“Good. Shall we get started, then?” She looks even plainer than she had the other night, wearing matching drawstring trousers and a tunic top, both equally shapeless, that look to be made of dye-free hemp. Her gray hair hangs in a braid down her back. A pair of Dr. Scholl's complete the vegan-chic look. “You may feel some discomfort,” she says when I'm lying down, “but it's better if you try to relax. Be sure and let me know if at any point it gets to be too … intense, and we can take a break.”

I grit my teeth as she goes to work. Good God. I can't believe people do this for the so-called health benefits. Because there can't be anything healthy about whatever is going on down there that has my intestines gurgling like a backed-up drain. “Kind” to my body? More like punishment for the abuse to which I subjected it in the past. I must have the makings of a sleuth if I'm willing to go to such an extreme. Either that or my brother isn't the only crazy one in our family.

We don't get a chance to talk until she's done and I can speak without moaning. “Well, that was certainly an experience,” I remark when she returns after leaving me to get dressed. “I can't say I enjoyed it, but hopefully I'll see some benefits when I stop feeling like I'm going to pass out.”

“That's the toxins leaving your body,” she explains. “You should feel fine in a little while.”

“I think I just need to sit down for a minute.” When I lower myself into the chair, it's not just a ploy—I really am feeling a bit faint. “By the way, I've been thinking about what you said. You know, when we were talking at the party.”

“Oh? I'm sorry you'll have to refresh my memory.” I can't tell if she's being evasive or not.

“We were talking about my mom's boyfriend. Stan Cruikshank. I was wondering what else you could tell me about him.”

“I told you what I know,” she replies guardedly as she's bundling the used linens. She adds, with a note of gentle reproach, “And frankly, I don't see what good could possibly come of dredging up all that old stuff. If you want my advice, you'll let it go. Let the dead rest in peace.”

“Stan isn't dead,” I remind her.

“No, but that's all in the past.”

“There's no statute of limitation on murder.”

She gasps and brings a hand to her throat. “Oh, dear.” She looks at me with wide eyes. “I had no idea he was a suspect.”

“Think about it. She left home to be with him, then they both disappeared. We assumed they'd run off together, but we now know that wasn't the case. What I think is that they got into a fight and he killed her in a fit of rage. That explains why he was on the run until recently. His own brother hadn't heard from him in years.” McGee had done some investigating of his own with the help of his seemingly inexhaustible supply of relatives in law enforcement. He'd obtained a copy of Stan's birth certificate. From there it had been easy to locate Stan's only living relative, a brother in his hometown of Lubbock, Texas. “I'm sure the only reason he moved back here was because he figured enough time had passed. He'd have gotten away with it too, if her body hadn't turned up.”

“Have the police questioned him?”

“Yeah, but he claims he's innocent and they can't prove otherwise. Which is where I come in. I'm doing some investigating of my own.”

“I see. Well. If there's any way I can be of help …” she offers weakly.

“Do you know if he had any friends here at the Fontana? Besides my mom, I mean.”

“We didn't socialize, so I wouldn't know. He got along with the men he worked with, as I recall.” She smiles thinly. “My dad was a contractor, so I spent a lot of time around construction crews when I was growing up. There's not a lot of subtlety; you're either one of the guys or you're not. Stan was one of the guys.”

“Ever see him lose his temper?”

She frowns. “No, I can't say that I did.”

“Anything else you remember? No detail too small.”

She ponders this, chewing on her lower lip. “There is one thing, but it's not related. I didn't think of it at the time because I didn't know she was dead, but after I learned what had happened to her, it occurred to me your mom must have died around the same time as those other people.”

“What other people?” The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“They worked here at the Fontana. Martina was one of our massage therapists. Hector was the groundskeeper. Freak accidents in both cases. She was in a car accident and he fell from a ladder. Broke his neck.”

A chill goes through me.

“It was especially tragic because they were both so young. But these things happen,” she says sadly.

“Do you know for a fact they were accidental deaths?” I'm not so much asking as thinking aloud. I can't take anything at face value after what happened with Joan the other night.

Seraphina becomes flustered. “No, no, no … I wasn't suggesting … Really, I shouldn't have mentioned it. It was just one of those random thoughts.” Before I can question her further, I'm being ushered out the door; she has another client due any minute, she regretfully informs me.

My mind is spinning as I make my exit.
Mom died of a broken neck.

Coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not.

My last property of the day is the Trousdales' La Mar estate. I stop at the Albertsons' along the way to buy the grocery items Joan asked me to pick up. (She's recuperating at home and must be feeling better if she's concerning herself with mundane matters like paper towels and peanut butter.) Genevieve answers my knock. If I needed further proof of the unfairness of life, it's the sight of her in her bikini. Her body is as flawless as the Photoshopped images of celebrities in magazines. Her legs go on for miles, her waist is Disney-princess proportions, her breasts round and firm and clearly not fake, and there's not a cellulite dimple in sight.

She seems delighted to see me rather than annoyed at the intrusion. Maybe that's because Bradley isn't around. “He went into town to run some errands,” she informs me. “Here, let me help with that.” She relieves me of the shopping bags that are weighing me down in addition to the ten pounds I gained just looking at her. I go back for the rest. After everything's been stowed in the cupboards, she insists I stay for some iced tea. “I can fix you a sandwich to go with it, if you like.”

“I'll pass on the sandwich, but iced tea sounds good.” My gut still feels a little rocky. In fact, I may never eat again. Which wouldn't be a bad thing if it means looking as svelte as Genevieve.

“Poor Joan. What a frightful ordeal!” she exclaims when we're sitting outside sipping our iced teas in the shade of the cabana that overlooks the infinity pool. Clearly she knows all about it; there had been no keeping a lid on something so huge. “It's easy to see how she became confused.”

“Because she thinks her husband tried to kill her, you mean?”

“Well, yes. I mean, really.” She directs her troubled gaze to where the pool meets the sky at the seaward end of the patio in an unbroken line of blue. “Clearly her mind was playing tricks.”

“Or it happened the way she said it did. I'm just saying,” I add, as she twists around to face me with a horrified gasp.

“You don't really think that, do you?”

“No. But I don't know that we can dismiss it out of hand.”

“I refuse to believe it,” she says firmly.

Fearing I may have gone too far, I stick to what is factually true. “I guess you know their divorce is pretty acrimonious.”

“Yes, and he's been positively beastly about it all.” She sounds like Mary Poppins speaking of a naughty child. “But he's not a violent man. Quite the contrary. He's always perfectly lovely with me.”

I wouldn't describe Douglas as “lovely,” but whatever. “There's a lot of money at stake.”

“Masses,” she says with the nonchalance of someone born to the manor, as they say in jolly old England. Clearly she comes from wealth—another reason to hate her besides the fact that she's beautiful and accomplished and has a body that belongs on the cover of a
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit edition. Oh yeah, and she's practically engaged to the man on whom I have a crush.

That is, if it were possible to hate someone so nice.

“People have been known to kill for less,” I point out.

Even with the big sunglasses she's wearing it's not hard to read her expression. She's clearly aghast. “He'd have to be mad!” She doesn't mean mad as in angry, either. Though there is that.

“It's usually the husband,” I remind her.

I have murder on the brain. After my chat with Seraphina, I drove over to the public library downtown, where I combed through old editions of
The Sentinel
on microfilm
,
in search of news accounts of the two deaths she'd mentioned. They were easy enough to find because they'd both occurred within the same year, the most recent one only a few months before my mom's disappearance. Twenty-six-year-old Martina Vuković had perished in an automobile accident. Thirty-two-year-old Hector Martinez had suffered a fatal fall from an extension ladder. No witnesses in either case: Martina had been driving on an isolated stretch of road late at night and no other vehicle was involved; Hector had been home alone, trimming a tree in his backyard. One thing I was struck by, aside from the obvious Fontana connection, was that they were both immigrants. Martina originated from Bosnia and Hector from Mexico. Coincidence or contributing factor? I was leaning toward the latter. Two foreigners who'd become friends, possibly lovers, out of a shared sense of alienation, and who then stumbled onto something that got them killed.

Douglas Trousdale had been around at the time. It was during the ten-year period, after he'd graduated college and before he went into business for himself, that he'd worked for his father. What if Hector or Martina had caught him embezzling and threatened to expose him? Or he'd been paying them to keep quiet? Whichever, he'd have wanted them gone. Before, I wouldn't have believed him capable of murder, but ever since Joan's misadventure, I've been questioning whether I'm on the right track with Stan. Maybe I should be focusing on Douglas instead.

“There's no doubt in my mind.” Genevieve's voice breaks into my reverie. “It's nothing more than a case of someone jumping to the wrong conclusion. I don't blame Joan. It was dark, and she was distraught. But the sooner we can put this behind us the better. Before it gets any uglier.”

“Assuming he doesn't try again.” I recall Joan's chilling words.

I watch the color drain from Genevieve's face. She sets her iced tea down on the glass Brown Jordan patio table, hard enough to set the ice to rattling. Clearly it hadn't occurred to her until now that the incident in question might, in fact, have been an attempt on Joan's life, and not the last one, either. “Perish the thought,” she murmurs, then winces at her unfortunate word choice.

I hear the distant roar of the tractor mower, a reminder that Daniel doesn't have classes to teach on Monday afternoons; he devotes those hours to his maintenance chores around here. I finish my tea and get up to leave. “I should go see what my boyfriend is up to. Thanks for the tea.”

She walks me to the back gate. Whatever was worrying her before she seems to have put it behind her. There are no frown lines creasing her unblemished brow and her Kate Middleton smile is back in place. “By the way, I asked Daniel if you two were free for supper on Thursday and he said I should check with you. You don't have any other plans, do you?” She eyes me hopefully.

Great. I'm boxed in. It's not like I can make up an excuse, not with my boyfriend in residence; one slip of the tongue and she'd know I was a liar. She'd be hurt, and though I may not be the nicest person, I'm not cruel. “No. That sounds nice. Can I bring anything? I'm not much of a cook, but I can do a salad. Or we could eat out. I wouldn't want you to go to any trouble.”