curiously. I wondered what it would be like to be with someone gentle. Civilized. Someone
not afraid to be who he was – even if it was a guy with a fake English accent.
Dusk fell. Behind the tall gates and Sleeping Beauty brambles, Christmas lights winked
on up and down the street – not at the Garibaldi estate, however – not even all red ones.
There was no sign of life at all.
“Let’s drive down.”
Without comment, Guy started the engine. We drove back and parked a few yards
down from the Garibaldi estate. I opened the car door – remembered that I had left my gun
back at the gas station in the glove compartment of the Forester.
“What is it?” Guy asked. “You have a weird look on your face.”
“Huh? Uh…nothing.”
I wasn’t crazy about walking in there unarmed. If I was right, these people had very
little to lose by adding one more body to the count. On the other hand, if I was wrong – and
let’s face it, my batting average was not high these days – and I ended up getting picked up
by the cops with an unregistered gun in my possession, it was going to complicate things.
“I think I should go with you,” Guy said abruptly.
I shook my head. “No. For two reasons. One, you’re the only person who knows I’m in
there. Which means, if I get into trouble…”
“I take it you’ve decided to trust me.”
“And two, you haven’t done anything illegal yet. So, if I do get myself arrested, at this
point, you’re still clean.”
“How long will you be?”
“If I’m not back in forty-five minutes…no, make it an hour…call the police.” I fished
out a card. “Call him.”
“Riordan? That asshole!”
“He is an asshole, but he’ll come, and he won’t waste time getting here.” If simply for
the pleasure of killing me himself.
“You’ve got forty-five minutes,” Guy said. “Too much can happen in an hour.”
I nodded, slipped out of the car, and started walking quickly toward the house. As an
afterthought, I reached into my pocket, turned my cell-phone on vibrate.
The dusk had deepened to indigo as I slipped through the gates, sticking to the fence
line and the blade-shaped shadows of the trees.
There was a long pool, the water as still as black glass in the twilight. A row of cypress
stood like spear points. At the far end was a strange, flat-topped marble slab. An ugly piece of
modern sculpture, I thought. Then I re-thought. I moved from tree to tree till I was close
enough to kneel and examine the slab. It was hard to tell in that light, but it looked like the
milky white stone was flecked and veined in black – as though ink had spilled into the
cracks.
No way, I thought, against the wave of revulsion.
But as I stared at the surrounding wall of trees – and considered the distance to the
nearest house – I realized that it was possible. I closed my eyes for a moment. Shaking off
the sickness, I got up and headed for the back of the house.
Two bulging trash bags sat at the top of the stairs. The door stood ajar. No light was
visible from outside.
I tiptoed up the steps, eased the door open, peeking in. An incongruously cozy light
shone from the stovetop, illuminating a long chef’s kitchen with an embossed tin ceiling.
Stainless steel appliances gleamed dully. The granite-topped center island was big enough to
support a double sacrifice.
Several cans of baked beans sat on the island.
Per Chan’s info, the house was supposed to be empty. I crossed to the stainless steel
fridge, opened it. Bottle upon bottle of champagne nestled there.
Champagne and baked beans? Talk about perversion.
I almost didn’t hear the rubber-soled approach of footsteps in time.
Just as the kitchen door swung open, I ducked into the pantry. Betty Sansone strode
into the kitchen carrying a tray. She lowered the tray to the granite counter, set a bowl and
glass in the sink. She walked out again.
I stole out of the pantry and took a look in the sink. Baked beans residue. I sniffed the
glass. Not champagne. Water with something medicated.
Cautiously, I swung open the kitchen door and gazed down an empty hallway. I
listened. My watch ticked away in the silence.
I had about thirty-nine minutes left.
I crept down the hall, freezing when a floorboard creaked underfoot. It sounded as
loud as a shot to me, but nothing happened.
The hall opened onto an elegant dining room. A chandelier sparkled overhead, but the
velvet draperies were drawn so that the light could not be seen from outside. A banquet-
length table was covered in black linen and set with crystal, china, and silver. Tall black
candles stood in ornate sterling candelabras. Don’t ask me why black candles seemed so
creepy, but a shiver slithered down my spine at the sight.
I counted thirty chairs and thirty place settings.
And canned baked beans for supper? I thought not. So there must be a caterer coming.
Could I somehow use that to my advantage? Like how? Dress up as a waiter and search the
house while balancing a tray of hors d’oeuvres?
Voices at two o’clock, approaching fast.
Damn, damn, damn.
I scrambled under the table and pulled the chairs back in position.
The thud of my heart in my ears was so loud I could hardly hear over it.
“How is that my fault?” a young male voice inquired. I thought I recognized the voice.
“I didn’t say it was your fault. Why does it have to be anyone’s fault? I’m just saying I’d
like to get my nails done.” That voice, I definitely recognized. Betty Sansone: She-Devil in
training.
Betty and Wilma – er, Wilmer, I thought. And all I needed now was for Fred and
Barney and Dino the Dinosaur to show up.
Wilmer said, “Somebody has to stay here. We can’t leave the caterers wandering
around the house.”
“Why would they?”
I watched twin pairs of Levi’s-clad legs stroll past. That’s all I could see of them. They
passed down the hallway toward the kitchen, continuing to argue.
Crawling out on the other side of the table, I darted through the opposite door.
Herringbone wood floors and an elegant white fireplace. No furniture. A giant inverted
pentagram had been painted in blood-red at the center of the room.
That ought to give the caterers something to talk about.