One of Those Malibu Nights (26 page)

“So, what’s
your
take on this?” he asked Sunny, catching her hand in his.

Sunny thought about the man she had talked to that night in the Bar Marinera in Mazatlán. She remembered his sad brown eyes and him saying,
“It’s love gone wrong …”
Of course with that he’d had her on his side in a minute, and even though he’d disappeared on her, she didn’t like to think of him being charged with murder.

“I don’t believe it was Ron,” she said.

“That’s because you don’t want to believe it.”

“True,” she admitted. “But even if Ruby Pearl was blackmailing him, I still don’t see him as a psychopath, killing a woman and burying her under his prize cactus. It takes a different kind of man to do something as evil as that. And anyway
why
would he kill her? He’s a powerful man with a battery of lawyers. He could simply have given her a chunk of money, had her sign a legal contract, and then he could have said goodbye and thank you very much.”

The house phone beeped and Mac got up and went to
answer it. He came back a minute later and said, “Demarco’s here. He wants to talk.”

Sunny sat up quickly. “Why?”

“If I knew I’d tell you.”

She slipped on a yellow cotton cover-up. “Do I offer him coffee?”

“If he’s coming to talk, my guess is he’ll need something stronger than coffee.”

He was right. Demarco was looking cool as ever, although this time he was wearing a casual white golf shirt and beige pants. He said he would prefer vodka. On the rocks. He took a long look around the place, then, one disdainful eyebrow lifted, followed Mac outside.

“Good to see you again,” he said, though he was obviously surprised to see Sunny. He glanced questioningly at Mac.

“Sunny is my partner,” Mac said, thrilling her. “What I hear, she hears.”

Demarco nodded. “Then I’d better tell you it’s true that the FBI is investigating Perrin’s …
our
… business.”

Demarco wasn’t telling Mac anything he didn’t already know, but he caught the odd look in Demarco’s eyes. He puzzled over it while Perrin’s right-hand man talked. What was it exactly? Insecurity? Fear? Surely not, in a man like that. But there was also the matter of the body in the cactus garden.

“I wonder,” Mac said. “Do you think Perrin was money laundering?”

Demarco coughed into his drink. “I surely hope not,” he said. “Because as his partner I’m afraid that might implicate me.”

“Yes, it might,” Mac said with a smile.

“Of course, that would be entirely untrue.” Demarco looked Mac in the eye. “If Ron is guilty of something, besides murder, it would be up to you to prove I had nothing to do with it.”

“And how will I do that?”

Demarco took a long swig of his vodka. He put down the glass and looked from Mac to Sunny and back again. “I’d pay you well, Mr. Reilly.
Very well
. More than you’ve ever been paid in your life.”

There was a long silence. Mac was aware that Demarco was trying to gauge their reaction. His own face was expressionless, while Sunny looked stunned by such an overt bribe.

Mac’s cell rang. He took the call, listening while Demarco sat in silence, staring out to sea, though Mac knew he wasn’t watching the brown pelicans doing their high diving act.

He clicked off the phone, then said, “I think you’ll be interested to know that the remains found at Perrin’s Palm Springs compound have been identified by dental records as those of Ruby Pearl. The diamond watch was traced to a Beverly Hills jeweler. It was purchased by Perrin.”

Demarco shrugged his shoulders. “What can I say? Now you see why you have no choice but to help me.”

When Demarco had left, with a promise from Mac to try to find Ron and sort out the mess, Mac called Lipski to confirm the news about Ruby Pearl. In a choked-up voice Lipski thanked him. He said now Ruby would be able to rest in peace and he would try to get on with his life. “Just get that killer Perrin for me, will ya?” he begged Mac.

“He’s not named as the killer yet,” Mac told him. “He’s still only ‘a person of interest’ to the Palm Springs PD. And remember, just because her body was buried in his garden, doesn’t mean he killed her.”

“Then who else would do it?” Lipski asked.

Mac thought he had a point.

Ampara was worried. She and the dog had been staying with friends since the scary events at the house, but she was conscientious, and twice a week she went back to the Bel Air house to open up the windows and air out the place, dust the furniture and make sure everything was okay.

Mac Reilly had kept her up-to-date but whoever the perpetrator was, he had worn gloves and there were no fingerprints, other than the normal ones. In Ampara’s view there should have been no fingerprints anyway. She kept a clean house and was proud of her work. Anyhow, so far the cops had no suspects and nor did Reilly, though he’d told her he felt sure it was safe for her to go to the house to do her work. “After all, sir, I’m being paid for it,” Ampara had
said when she called him about it. And besides, she didn’t like just doing nothing except walk the dog.

She was there one morning when the usually silent phone rang. Surprised, she stopped her vacuuming and stared at it. It had not rung, at least when she was there to hear it, since that awful night, and now she was scared to answer it. It occurred to her, though, that it might be Miss Allie, and dropping the vac she ran to answer it.

“Perrin residence,” she said, cautiously.

“Ampara?”

She recognized the voice. “Miss Whitworth,” she said relieved. “I’m glad it’s you.”

“Were you expecting Allie to call?”

“Well, sort of hoping, y’know how it is …”

“I sure do, and that’s why I’m calling. Listen, I know—we all know—that Allie’s gone missing and I’m really worried about her. You know how I feel about Allie. How we
both
feel, Ampara. I’m hoping I can help her. She needs someone who knows her, y’know what I mean? And since I just happen to be here in Cannes on vacation, with a friend, I thought if you knew where she was, if she had been in contact … maybe I could go and help her. Allie needs someone who knows her
well
, Ampara, another woman who really cares …

“Oh, I agree, Miss Whitworth. Miss Allie’s such a lonely woman, and now she’s run off and disappeared, and with what happened here at the house …”

“What do you mean? What happened at the house?” Jessie’s voice was sharp with anxiety, but just in time Ampara remembered that Mr. Reilly told her not to talk about it to anyone.

“Oh, I just got nervous being on my own, so me and Fussy are sleeping over at a friend’s. And anyway, Miss Whitworth, I don’t know where she is. Nobody does. And nobody knows where Mr. Ron is either.”

“Hmmm, well I’ll call back soon, and if you hear anything, Ampara, promise you’ll let me know.”

“Okay, Miss Whitworth. I sure will.”

Ampara went back to her vacuuming. Outside the window she saw the pool guy wielding his long net across the water, sending it rippling like blue silk over the infinity edge, and heard the familiar whine of the gardener’s leaf blower and the hum of the John Deere tractor mower. Life went on as normal at the Perrin house. Except its owners had disappeared.

The phone rang again. She stopped and stared at it. Could it be Miss Allie this time? Or maybe Mr. Ron?

She picked it up. “Perrin residence?”

“Oh, Ampara, this is Sheila Scott.”

A relieved smile crossed Ampara’s face. She knew Sheila Scott and liked her.

“How are you, Ampara?”

“Well, Miss Scott, as good as can be expected, I guess, after what happed here … Ohh …” Again, she stopped herself just in time.

“What do you mean? What happened?”

Ampara heard the concern in Sheila’s voice. She was Miss Allie’s best friend, surely she could trust her. Deciding she could, she told her about the break-in, about the beautiful dresses, all slashed with a knife and thrown onto the floor …

“God knows what might have happened if Miss Allie had still been here,” she ended with a sigh that was almost a sob.

Sheila was silent for a moment, taking in the full horror of the situation. Then she said, “But surely the police … ?”

“They don’t know nuthin’, Miss Scott, and nor does that Mac Reilly, who was looking after her. And I sure miss Lev, that bodyguard, being around.”

“I’ll bet you do. Then you haven’t heard from her, I suppose?”

“Not a word, miss. And nor has no one else. Not even Mr. Reilly, and I know she trusted him. You too, miss,” she added.

Sheila thanked her, and Ampara said she would call her if she happened to hear from Allie.

“You’re the second one today calling asking about her,” Ampara said, just as Sheila was about to ring off. “Jessie Whitworth called just a few minutes ago. You remember, she used to be Miss Allie’s assistant.”

“I remember.”

“Well, she’s concerned too. She thinks Miss Allie must
be all alone somewhere and needs another woman, a friend to help her. She said she also happens to be in Cannes on vacation and did I know where Allie was.”

“And what did you say?”

“Of course I told her I had no clue. Only that she was in the South of France when she disappeared.”

“Hmm. Quite a coincidence,” Sheila said thoughtfully. “Well, thanks, Ampara. You know if you hear from her, to give me a call?”

“I will, Miss Scott. And thank you for calling.”

Feeling better now that Allie’s friends were rallying round, Ampara went back to her vacuuming. Life at the Bel Air mansion went on almost as usual.

Sheila could not get the vision of Allie’s gowns slashed by a knife-wielding madman out of her mind. Even in Bristol Farms supermarket buying fruit and flowers and a good French cheese to go with the freshly baked bread, it was still on her mind. The stalker had finally gotten into her house, and it could have been Allie stabbed instead of just those dresses. From Allie’s cheerful phone call from somewhere in France, Sheila realized she did not know about the incident and she thanked God for that. Still, she was worried. What if the stalker found her? He was clever enough to get into the house, wasn’t he? Scared now, she decided she had to tell Mac Reilly about Allie’s phone call.

Mac was surprised to get a call from Sheila Scott, who described herself as one of Allie’s closest friends. As far as he’d known, Allie had no close friends. But when she explained to him that she’d heard about the break-in, that she was worried and needed to talk, he arranged to meet her at home in Venice Beach.

Miss Scott’s house was in one of those charming little walk-streets lining the canals that gave L.A.’s Venice its name. It was a cottage, larger than his own and set in a pretty rose-filled front garden, with diamond-paned windows and a sturdy wooden front door. With Pirate at his heels, he opened the wrought-iron gate in the shape of a peacock, stopping en route to sniff the lavender-colored Barbra Streisand rose, which had a spicy, sweet aroma. He wished he could grow roses out at the beach but the salt spray would be too much for them. He climbed the two wide steps and rang the bell, hearing it peal a little song that he recognized but couldn’t identify.

When Sheila Scott opened the door to him, she said, “I’ll bet you’re wondering what the song was.”

He grinned. “How did you know?”

“Everyone always does. It’s “Nessum dorma,” from Puccini’s opera
Turandot
. You’re probably more familiar with Pavarotti singing it at World Cup finals, or the three tenors, Pavarotti, Domingo and Carreras, in the televised
concert from Rome. It’s harder to identify it without the words.” She waved him inside. “Please, come on in. And the dog too.”

She stooped to give Pirate a pat, then, taking in his injuries, glanced back up at Mac. “I can tell you are a very kind man.”

He shrugged. “I only did what anybody else would. Anyhow, I wouldn’t be without him.”

“You’re very fortunate.”

She was the second woman to tell him that. Allie had been the first. He liked Sheila Scott already.

She took him into her kitchen, a lovely room, low-ceilinged with French doors thrown open to a vista of more roses and shady pepper trees and eucalyptus and with a narrow flagged terrace overlooking the peaceful green canal. The houses were crammed next to each other in a mishmash of styles, jockeying for space, as they did at the beach. But here, there was also a view of the gardens and houses opposite, with little pleasure boats tied up outside.

“Lovely home you have,” Mac said appreciatively.

“I bought it thirty years ago. It was a wreck—as was almost everything else in Venice. Nobody wanted to live here then, too close to the hood, no infrastructure—y’know, no supermarkets, restaurants, boutiques, cafés. Now you can’t walk two blocks without falling over all of that.”

“And now it’s worth a couple of mil, I’ll bet,” Mac said. “You made a shrewd investment.”

Sheila laughed. “There was nothing ‘shrewd’—or ‘investment’—about it. It was all I could afford, and besides I loved being on the canal. It has its own magic, as you can see. Almost,” she added with a twinkle, “as good as the beach.