The Curse of the Holy Pail #2 (34 page)

Steele looked straight at the road and nodded his agreement. Michael Steele was thirty-six, just a year younger than Greg. I took in his profile-a straight nose and chiseled jaw; strong, angular lines and an inviting mouth. Thick, dark hair, stylishly cut, peeked out from under the Lakers cap. Behind the glasses, his eyes were dark and perfectly spaced and brimmed with intelligence. With features rugged enough not to be considered pretty, he really was a looker. His body, too, was about perfect. I knew he worked out daily, and it showed, especially today when not covered by a suit coat. It was plain to see why women fell to his seductions so easily.

"Why haven't you ever married, Steele?" I asked.

A smile crept across his lips. "Who says I haven't?"

I felt my eyes pop in his direction. "You have?"

"A long time ago. Ancient history."

"But who was she? Do you have any children?" Michael Steele had been married. Now this was truly a news bulletin.

"It was during law school. No kids, thankfully. Only lasted three years.

Steele looked over at me briefly, the smile still on his lips. "You're getting off track, Grey. Not good. Not even for an amateur detective"

He turned his attention back to the road. "Who do you think killed Jackson and attacked Karla?"

"My vote is either Kyle or Stella, or maybe both together. Strange thing is, Detective Frye said Jackson had been killed and dumped into the pool much earlier than his wife's stabbing. They think he was killed sometime in the night or early morning out on a chaise by the pool. And he was naked. She was not."

"Naked by the pool on a lounge? Hmm," Steele said, thinking out loud. "My guess is that he'd had sex with someone just prior and had taken a dip. Or else they had been skinny-dipping together. Jackson was probably dozing on the chair when it happened."

"And he had been stabbed, too," I added. "Someone got close enough to stab him. Either he didn't hear them, especially if he'd been sleeping, or he had no reason to be alarmed."

"Probably sleeping," Steele decided with a quick nod of decision. "Jackson Blake was a strong guy. If he saw a knife coming, he could have easily fought off either Kyle or Stella, with only cuts for his trouble."

"True," I added, "and he certainly would have been wary of Kyle. After all, he was sleeping with Kyle's girlfriend. I don't think Kyle knew about Stella and Jackson-although I think Karla suspected something."

Then I remembered something about Stella and Jackson that might help make sense of Jackson's murder.

"Stella was supposed to get the Holy Pail from Amy that morning. She told me that she and Jackson had planned on going away together once they had it. That was before Sterling Price was killed, but maybe they renewed their plans. Maybe Jackson came over to spend the night. Kyle wasn't living there yet. Or maybe he came over very early in the morning. He and Stella got it on, and Kyle caught them in a post-coital nap."

"So where's Stella? Don't you think Kyle would have stabbed her, too?"

"Maybe," I said. "Unless she fast-talked her way out of it. She always said Kyle wasn't that bright."

Steele laughed. "He isn't. Always seems a bit off-center to me."

As the local landscape sped past my window, I pictured the Price house and people playing in the pool. A couple happily coming together under the sky until they passed out for a refreshing snooze. I turned to Steele.

"To my thinking, the most likely scenario is that Stella killed Jackson. Maybe he came by to give her one last boink before giving her the heave-ho. Maybe she went berserk and killed him. Later, when Karla came by looking for her straying husband, Stella was waiting for her."

"Except for the word boink, Grey, that theory could work."

"And Amy could have seen the body, or even seen Stella kill him, and ran like a rabbit."

Steele nodded. "This definitely has possibilities."

"But what about the blood upstairs on the bed?" I asked. "They don't know yet if it's Jackson's, or whose it is."

"Try this on for size, Grey. After boinking Jackson," Steele said with a grin, "Stella killed him. Like a black widow spider. Then, instead of eating him, she went upstairs and napped like a baby."

"Could be." I had to admit, it was a good theory. "If Stella stabbed Jackson, she probably would have gotten blood on herself. She could have been in shock and went upstairs to sleep it off. Later, when Karla came over, she was waiting for her." I nodded and said to myself out loud, "I like it."

"And Price's murderer?" Steele asked.

"On that I'm clueless," I told him. "The police have questioned everyone and have come up with nothing. Anyone who had access to Sterling Homes that weekend could have put poison into the coffee bags. Nothing points to anyone in particular. And the only one with an alibi and without motive is Carmen Sepulveda."

"Not so fast on that assumption, Grey."

"WhY?

"If Karla was trying to prematurely retire her father, what do you think would happen to Carmen?"

I thought about that a bit. "Well, I do know that there's no love lost between Karla and Carmen, but that's more old school versus new ideas, I think."

I considered life at Sterling Homes without Sterling Price at the helm.

"But I doubt, now that her father's gone, that Karla would keep Carmen on."

"Exactly. Carmen was Sterling's right hand, but has no allegiance to Karla. I saw that clearly whenever I was there for meetings."

"Carmen killing Sterling doesn't make sense. She needed him around to keep her job."

"True. If Sterling retired, Carmen would have had to retire, too." Steele tossed his head toward the back of the car. "See that file I brought with us? It's tucked behind my seat. Get it."

I did. It was Sterling's will.

"Read the pages I have flagged," Steele said.

I did as I was told, my eyes widening. When I was through, I tucked the file back where I'd found it.

According the will, Carmen was to receive a very large cash bequest, including company stock, if she was still in the employ of Sterling Homes when Sterling Price died. If he retired before her, she received a smaller sum. If she was not in his employ at the time of his death or retirement, she received nothing. It was clearly an inducement to keep her on board as long as he needed her.

"Okay, so now Carmen has a motive, but the police questioned her and searched her place."

"I didn't say she did it, Grey, just that she had a motive like everyone else, especially if she got wind that he was thinking about retiring."

He glanced at me. "So, Grey, who do you think has your cat?"

I shook my head in dismay. "I have no idea. Could be Stella and Kyle. Could be Willie. Maybe it's a third party I haven't considered before."

"Willie? You mean Proctor?"

"Yes, but honestly, I don't think Willie would have trashed my place. He said he'd already searched it.

"And you know what, Steele?" I asked, remembering the strangest thing about the ransacking of my house. "They took my Thin Mints!"

Steele jerked his head in my direction. "They took what?" he asked in disbelief.

"Thin Mints. You know, those chocolate mint cookies from the Girl Scouts."

"Who in the hell but you, Grey, would have Girl Scout cookies in August," he said, laughing hard.

"I'm glad you find that so amusing," I said in a huff, crossing my arms in front of me.

Steele was still laughing. "Well, it certainly makes this easier. Just smell everyone's breath. Or check to see who stopped to buy a gallon of milk between Newport Beach and Paramount Ranch"

TWENTY-EIGHT

WE HAD BEEN DRIVING in silence for quite a while, each of us lost in personal reverie, when Steele turned off the freeway. I looked up in time to read a sign for Kanan Road. I had no idea where we were. To me, this area is just a patch of road I zoomed through when driving north to places like Morro Bay or Santa Barbara. Looking at my watch, I saw that it was only five forty-five. If Paramount Ranch was close, we were very early.

After turning onto Kanan Road, Steele made a right turn into the parking lot of a small cluster of businesses and restaurants. He pulled in to a space near an Islands restaurant.

"You hungry, Grey?" he asked as he turned off the engine and unbuckled his seat belt.

"Hungry?" I asked back. "At a time like this?"

Steele looked out the windshield and smiled slightly. He took off his sunglasses and turned back to look at me. His usual smartass smirk was gone. There was actually concern in his eyes.

"Paramount Ranch is just down the road. We're pretty early and it's dinner time." He turned to open the car door. "We have no idea what's facing us, Grey. Better to do it on a full stomach."

Like the drive, we spent most of our meal in silence and ate quickly. Steele devoured his China Coast Chicken Salad-no fried noodles, dressing on the side, please-while I nibbled the edges of my Hula Burger and slurped iced tea. After eating, we both visited the bathroom. By six forty-five, we were back on the road with my heart in my throat.

As Steele said, Paramount Ranch was just down the road from the restaurant. It was also situated in a state park. From Kanan Road, Steele turned onto Mulholland. We took the windy road until coming to the entrance of the park and Paramount Ranch. He pulled in to the large dirt lot where a couple of cars were already parked. Two women on horseback rode past us. Behind us, I noted an officiallooking building with utility vehicles stationed near it.

"That's the park ranger's office," Steele said, noticing my study of the building. "Recognize any of these cars?"

I scanned the other parked cars. "No"

To the right of the ranger's office, across the exit road, was a building that looked like a large garage. In front of that stood a very small structure that had carved wooden signs announcing public restrooms. On the side of the parking lot in front of the car was a bridge leading to what appeared to be an Old West town. I could make out a few of the buildings through the trees. There were a few people milling about here and there, mostly returning to their cars from the direction of the town. The sign at the entrance to the park had said the park closed at sunset. But since it was summer, it wouldn't be dark for a while yet.

"It seems odd," I said, "that whoever took Seamus would want to meet in such a public place and so close to where police are stationed." "

I wondered about that, too," Steele said. He reached into the glove box and pulled out a flashlight. "Unless he was so caught up in the atmosphere of the place that he didn't care or realize there were rangers posted here."

"You may be right. On the drive up, I remembered reading somewhere that The Chappy Wheeler Show was filmed here. If that's true, I can see why this place was chosen."

"What's that for?" I indicated the flashlight.

"Just in case we have to go inside some of those buildings. I doubt seriously if movie backdrops have electricity." Steele climbed out of the car. "Now what?"

I slid my bag under the seat to be less encumbered and got out of the car, clutching only the Holy Pail. With an aim of his key fob, Steele locked the car and set the alarm.

"I'm not sure," I said. "The cat-napper told me to walk through the town like a tourist. He said he'd find me." I walked around the car to where Steele stood. "I don't think you should go with me. He might think you're the police."

"I'm not letting you go in there alone," he said firmly. "He's probably watching us right now. And he might not be alone."

Steele was right. I scanned the area as carefully as I could, but there were so many trees and bushes. The creep could be just a few feet away and I would never notice.

Steele handed me the flashlight and moved away from the car, out into the open. He held out his good arm in airplane fashion and started slowly rotating three hundred sixty degrees. The arm with the cast was cradled in its sling next to his body.

"What are you doing?" I asked in amazement.

"Showing them I'm not armed."

"Duh, you could have something in the sling or stashed under a pant leg."

Deciding I had a point, Steele clumsily undid the sling and stripped it off. With more difficulty, he rolled up both legs of his warm-up pants almost to the knee. Then he went into his airplane thing again, this time with both arms outstretched, the arm in the cast banking slightly.

"You're as nuts as I am," I told him, shaking my head. "Forget the cat-napper, let's just hope the park ranger isn't watching."

I waited for Steele to reassemble his sling and roll down his pants before starting toward the bridge. Although it was nearly seven o'clock, the heat accrued from the hot August day had not diminished one whit. It was much hotter here than in Newport Beach. After just a few steps, I felt sweat build on my upper lip and under my arms.

While crossing the bridge, I noted it spanned a creek. Lots of brush and vegetation crowded both banks. Great, more potential hiding spots. On the other side of the bridge, there was a wide dirt road that branched in several directions from the main road. To the left was an open meadow with a gully near the road. Across the gully were two different-style bridges going nowhere-no doubt props for TV and movie shoots.