Trust Me (29 page)

“What?”

“She said, ‘Oh, Pauline, it’s you.’ ” The housekeeper shrugged. “As if she was relieved. I asked her who else it could possibly
have been but me, but she didn’t answer. I can’t imagine what she was up to.”

“I can,” Max said. He had gone to her apartment last night, looking for her, and found it empty. She did not answer her phone,
and she had not returned the message that he left on her answering machine.

“Damn her,” he muttered. Lola, who had joyfully attached herself to his hip upon his arrival, whined anxiously. “Not you,”
he said, and rubbed her ears.

“Are you still having trouble finding Miss Martin?” Pauline inquired. He had awakened her last night when he came to the house.
She had answered the door wearing a pink quilted bathrobe with a matching turban, and brandishing a large can of Mace.

“Yes,” Max said flatly. He felt like a fool, chasing after a woman who did not want to be found, and he resented it. He wondered
where she had gone last night. No doubt she had run off to cry in the arms of her family, telling them everything she thought
she knew. Davis was too far away, but there were Martins and Martin affiliates all over the Bay Area. Her sister, he recalled,
lived somewhere in Berkeley. By now, they all would have heard about what a bad guy he was—the latest loser in Carly’s life.

“Well, if you ask me,” Pauline said, “Miss Martin has something on her mind. She is behaving—in my opinion—like someone might
behave if they had a
guilty conscience.
”

Max exhaled sharply. He was in no mood to deal with innuendo. “You don’t like Carly very much, do you?”

Pauline gasped. “Mr. Max!” she exclaimed. “That certainly isn’t true. I’ve been very thankful for Miss Martin’s help ever
since poor Henry’s accident, and I know I’ve said so. She’s been very kind, which is why I never even told you about seeing
that van. I knew it would be wrong to say anything, since I really wasn’t sure about it…”

“What van?” Max asked. “What are you talking about?”

Her lips compressed. “I don’t think I should say.”

“You already did say,” Max growled. “What about a van?”

“Well…” Pauline said, looking more uncomfortable than he had ever seen her before, “on that evening when poor Henry fell
…”

“What about it?”

“Miss Martin says that she left here at six-fifteen.”

“That’s right. So?”

“I’m sure that’s the truth, and now I suppose that you’ll think I’m just making this up to be spiteful—”

“Pauline,” Max said, ominously. “Tell me what you saw.”

The housekeeper’s eyes rounded at his tone. “The van. Miss Martin’s white van. I can’t be absolutely sure—my eyes aren’t what
they used to be, you know—but when I was coming home, I thought I saw it driving away down the street. That would mean that
she left here at seven, Mr. Max. But if she did, why would she lie to you?”

“All clear, sir,” said the bellhop in a dramatic sotto voce. He held open the door to the service corridor, and Max hustled
Lola out into the dim and silent hallway of the Ritz-Carlton. With the help of a few well-placed bribes, he had created a
dog-smuggling route into the hotel that involved entry through the loading-dock door and a trip up in the service elevator.
He had his key ready, and they quickly reached his suite.

“In,” Max ordered. “Hurry up. No sniffing.”

Lola scurried inside, and Max hung out the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign and locked the door. It was dark. A single lamp burned next to the bed, throwing a faint pool of yellow light through
the open double doors into the living room. The evening housekeepers had long since come through, and the bed was covered
by crisp white sheets, invitingly turned down, which seemed to please Lola. Before Max could say a word, she galloped forward
and leaped onto the middle of the duvet. She grinned at him and began to investigate the wrapped chocolate sitting on his
pillow.

“Oh, no,” Max said. “Absolutely not. I will run with you. I will feed you. I will even accept that you are my dog. But I will
not sleep in the same damn bed with you. Get down right now.”

It took significant persuasion—and a packet of peanuts from the minibar—to convince Lola to settle down on the rug, but she
finally, grudgingly, did so. Max sat down at his desk and made a halfhearted attempt to catch up on his e-mail, but his mind
kept returning to the conversation with Pauline. At first, the housekeeper had insisted that she hadn’t told anyone else about
seeing the white van. But then, as Max questioned her, she had “remembered” mentioning it to Detective Gracie when he interviewed
her.

Max had had to make an effort to control himself. “Why would you tell Gracie about this two days ago, but not tell me until
now?”

“Well, Mr. Max! He is a
police officer.
”

“I appreciate your sense of civic duty,” Max said, “but that doesn’t answer my question.”

Pauline pursed her lips. “I certainly don’t want to be accused of trying to stir up trouble between you and Miss Martin.”

Max hadn’t even attempted to respond to that.

Pauline wasn’t the only one who was being reticent with information. Max had just spoken with Gracie that morning, and the
detective hadn’t said a word about any sighting of a van. Of course, that was probably because there was nothing to say. With
only Pauline’s unconfirmed possible sighting, there was no valid reason to doubt Carly’s story.

Max wondered if Pauline actually believed that Carly had been involved with Henry’s injury. He had asked her that, straight
out. She’d had the nerve to look shocked by the question, then she had given him the kind of evasive answer that he had expected.
It wouldn’t have surprised Max very much to hear that when the woman was alone with Carly, she dropped hints about how he
himself might be a villain. God knows, Henry’s trust gave him the same motive for murder that it gave Carly.

Or did it? He and Carly had roughly equal shares in Henry’s estate, a fortune in either case. But wouldn’t money mean more
to someone like Carly, who had none? Henry’s money would not change Max’s own life in any significant way, but Carly was another
story entirely. Upon Henry Tremayne’s death, she would suddenly become a rich and powerful woman.

But try as he might, Max simply couldn’t believe that Carly was capable of premeditated murder. If she was, then she was an
actress of a caliber that put any Academy Award winner to shame. What, then, of the van?

Several things were possible, he thought. One was that Pauline had made the whole thing up. Another was that she had seen
a van that was not Carly’s. Another was that Carly had indeed left the house at seven and lied about it. It seemed impossible,
and yet…

What if Henry’s fall had indeed been an accident, and Carly had witnessed it? Max considered the scenario. While saying good-bye
to her at the door, Henry had— somehow—slipped and fallen backward, hitting his head on the statue. It was an improbable notion,
but for the moment, he tried to imagine that there had been a freak accident. Carly was physically strong enough to move Henry’s
body from the front door to the foot of the stairs, but why would she do such a thing? She was a medical professional, and
she knew not to move a person with a head injury. The only thing to do at that point was to call an ambulance.

But no ambulance had been called. Whoever had dragged Henry into the house had not had his recovery in mind. They must have
believed him to be either dead or moments from death. The only possible purpose for leaving him at the foot of the stairs
was to make the cause of his injury—and death—seem obvious, avoiding any investigation. It had almost worked.

Max steeled himself, trying to be objective. Even if Carly did not have the capacity for premeditated murder, was it possible
that—having seen the accident—she had decided to take advantage of the opportunity? She had claimed surprise when he first
told her of the terms of the Tremayne trust, but she had also admitted that she and Henry had discussed it. She might well
have known what Henry’s death would mean to her.

It made sense. Didn’t it?

“No,” Max said, aloud. It did not. If Carly had been involved with the accident, something in her manner would have already
shown it. Nobody could handle almost four weeks of stressful uncertainty without starting to crack around the edges. When
he looked into Carly’s eyes, he saw nothing but unwavering honesty. If eyes really were the windows to the soul, he thought,
then Carly Martin’s soul was as clear and luminous as a summer sky.

And if eyes were sometimes just another part of a beautiful, deceptive facade? Max frowned down at the computer. Nobody was
that good a liar, he told himself. It simply wasn’t possible. Was it?

C
oward,
Carly said to herself, as she parked outside Henry’s house on Sunday morning. It was just past 7
A.M.
, much earlier than she usually arrived. The dogs were delighted to be fed at any hour, but it was not a desire to accommodate
them that had gotten her out of her bed at sunrise on a weekend. She had changed her schedule around yesterday as well, and
had managed to avoid Max completely.

“You’re early again,” Pauline said, as Carly walked into the kitchen. The housekeeper was wearing a blue-and-purple-flowered
caftan that made her look like a slip-covered armchair. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you,” Carly said.

“Oh, I know that you prefer coffee, of course, but you can’t expect me to have any made at this hour. If I’d known that you
were coming at seven, I would have had time to brew a pot. I’ll put it on now, but you’ll have to wait.”

“Really, I’m fine without. Please don’t go to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” Pauline said, with a deep sigh. “I’ll put it on.”

The feeding procedure had become routine, and Carly was adept at going through the motions in her usual semi-conscious early-morning
condition. Once the dogs had gobbled up their breakfasts, she hustled them out the back door into the yard.

“Yes,” she said to Samson, the old spaniel, who lingered by the door, looking entreatingly up at her. His rib had healed,
and he no longer had special dispensation to sleep on the sunroom couch all day. “You, too, sir. The fresh air will be good
for you.”

Carly ignored a loud sniff from Pauline and turned her attention to the cats. The hall door was closed—she had been trying
to remember to keep it so—and many of the cats were in the solarium, tucked into various nooks and crannies. There were six
chairs at the breakfast table, and on each seat, without exception, was a cat. Carly made the rounds, checking the group,
occasionally capturing a feline who needed to be brushed or medicated. It was almost eight by the time she finished, and she
was getting increasingly edgy as the clock hands crept forward. There was no reason to think that Max would come to the house
at all; but if he did, she didn’t want to be there. She walked back into the kitchen to wash her hands.

“Your coffee is ready,” Pauline said.

“Oh.” She had forgotten about the coffee. “It is? I need to be going, actually…”

The housekeeper drew herself up. “I made a fresh pot,” she said. “Just for you.”

“I… oh. Okay, thank you. I guess I will have some.” It was still before her usual arrival time. One cup of coffee should
be safe.

Pauline took Carly’s usual cup out of the cupboard: a special-edition porcelain mug, hand-painted with a Noah’s Ark scene.
She peered into it and frowned. “Humph! Spotty,” she announced.

Carly watched curiously as the housekeeper walked to the sink and began to scrub the offending mug. She made a long show of
washing, drying, and inspecting it before deeming it clean enough to be used. Then, with great care, she poured the coffee.

“Sugar?” she asked, still holding Carly’s mug.

Never, in two years of visiting Henry, had Carly put sugar in either her coffee or her tea, as Pauline knew perfectly well.

“No,” Carly said. “Thank you.”

“Milk?”

“Please.” Carly always put milk in her coffee. And in her tea. Pauline also knew that.

Pauline set the mug on the counter, out of Carly’s reach, and walked to the refrigerator. She opened it, pulled out a quart-sized
carton, and sniffed suspiciously at it. “My goodness. This milk has turned sour. I wonder if there’s more in here. I know
I bought two cartons.”

She stood, staring into the refrigerator, which was not large or crowded enough to obscure any object the size of a carton
of milk. Carly fidgeted in her chair.

“It’s fine,” Carly said, finally, unable to stay silent any longer. “I’ll drink it black. It’s not a problem.”

“I’m sure that I bought another carton when I was at the store. It must be downstairs in the other icebox. I’ll go and get
it.”

“Black coffee is fine,” Carly insisted. “Really.”

Pauline picked up the mug again, holding it possessively as Carly reached for it. “Certainly not,” she said. “I won’t be the
one to keep you from drinking your coffee the way you prefer it. I’ll just be a minute. Or two. The other icebox is down the
stairs in the cellar, you know. My hip has been bothering me, so it may take a little longer…”