I clambered out of the raft and pulled Regina up after me. “Looks awfully quiet,” I said.
“The boat’s gone. I know the neighbor. I can ask her when it sailed.”
“Let’s try the front door first.”
Regina was edgy, excited, definitely high. I wondered if she needed more adventure in her life. As adventures go, the one we were on was so far tame stuff. I let her ring the bell.
When no one answered, I stepped to the first set of terrace doors and brazenly looked inside.
I saw a professionally decorated living room, good antiques, polished wood floors, original artwork on the walls. Everything in order. I went to each set of doors and saw more of the same in different rooms. The message was lots of money, knows how to spend it.
“Maggie?” Regina walked across the terrace toward me waving a gray business card. “This was in the door. Should I just leave it?”
I took the card from her and read: Los Angeles Police Department. When I saw the name next to the gold-embossed detective shield, I got a knot in my stomach. Detective Michael Flint, it said, Robbery-Homicide Division, Major Crimes Section. There was a note on the back in Mike’s careful hand: “Mrs. Ramsdale, please call immediately.”
Patience is a virtue. Unfortunately, it’s not one of mine. In my rush to find out about Hillary, I had neglected some of the essential groundwork. That is, it was not my place to tell Elizabeth Ramsdale that her stepdaughter was dead.
Mike has told me that the most important part of a murder investigation is the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The physical evidence is fresh, and that’s nice when he gets the case into court. But it is usually more important to him to have fresh emotional evidence. When he questions someone, he listens to the body language as closely as he does the verbal answers: an inappropriate laugh, eyelids that drop before an answer, any reaction that catches the liar. For me to spring the news on Elizabeth would be evidence-tampering as egregious as tramping through the murder scene would be.
It was time for me to back off. I went over to the front door and tucked Mike’s card back into the space above the deadbolt where Regina had found it.
I started down the slick marble steps. “Want to take me back now?”
Regina stayed her ground. “While we’re here, let’s talk to the neighbor. She’s such a dear old thing. I’m sure she’s seen us. She’d think it rude if I didn’t stop in to say hello.”
I hesitated. An old lady next door wasn’t the same as talking to the family, but they can be wonderful sources of information.
I smiled at Regina. “Lead the way,” I said.
The neighbor’s house was a slate-gray Cape Cod with white trim and a lot of polished brass. Standing alone it would have been a charming beach cottage. But sandwiched between a faux English Tudor manor house and the Ramsdales’ palazzo, it seemed as contrived as a movie facade.
Regina banged the huge knocker a few times and we were let in by a maid wearing blue jeans and a flowered tunic.
“Have a seat in the living room,” the maid said. “I will tell Martha you’re here.”
“Martha knows they’re here.” The voice was estrogen-deepened, the woman behind it ancient. She came down the stairs leaning heavily on the railing, as wrinkled and fragile-looking as an orphaned baby bird. She offered her crooked hand to Regina, to hold not to shake. “So nice to see you, dear. How are the boys?”
“Getting big,” Regina said, planting a kiss on the powdered cheek. “All except Greg. He keeps hoping, but dammit, Martha, he’s just not going to grow anymore.”
Martha laughed. “Who’s your friend?”
“Martha, this is Maggie MacGowen. She’s a filmmaker and she’s interested in the Ramsdales.”
Martha turned her bright eyes on me. “Whyever would you be interested in the Ramsdales? Unless you’re doing soap opera.”
“Are they good soap-opera material?” I asked.
“Good Lord, yes. Much better than most television. I never rent videos on weekends. So much more interesting to just sit on my terrace and snoop.” She patted Regina’s hand. “Let’s go in and sit down. May I offer you some refreshment?”
Regina rose to the offer. “I wouldn’t mind a double something, on the rocks. How about you, Maggie?”
“No thanks,” I said. “I’m well past my limit.”
I looked at my watch as I followed them into the living room. I needed to be on the freeway within the hour if I was going to be in Sherman Oaks by six. The time wasn’t my problem. The wine was. I was in no shape to drive. I had known even as I accepted the first glass of champagne that I should stick with soda.
I’m a funny drunk. Charming even, according to my friends. I had never had a problem with booze, really. But I had had a rough year or so, and a little chemically induced happiness had helped me get by now and then. I was beginning to be aware how many evenings over the last few months I had been funny and charming by bedtime. There had been nights that without the help of a bottle of wine or several stiff scotches I wouldn’t have had the courage to go to bed at all.
For the first month or so after my ex-husband moved out, I went upstairs every night with the sense that an onerous burden had been lifted. There is nothing worse than going through the motions night after night out of habit, because you haven’t embraced the inevitable alternatives, with someone you wish had missed his freeway off ramp. Had gone over the side, maybe. Into the cold, unforgiving waters of the San Francisco Bay, perhaps.
Anyway, the relief wears off after a while and you begin to notice that one person can’t warm a king-size bed. Mike had helped warm the sheets for a while. Then, when he was gone, medium-priced chardonnay and Bowser had now and then sung my lullaby. I preferred Mike.
“Martha,” I said, “would you mind if I used the telephone?”
“By all means, dear,” she said graciously.
While Martha and Regina uncapped a new bottle of bourbon at the wet bar, I called Mike’s pager and programmed in Martha’s number. If he was still in Long Beach, there was no point in both of us driving all the way back to the Valley for dinner. Separately. I was thinking about his handcuffs when I rejoined the others.
Regina made room for me beside her on a velvet settee. “Martha knew Hillary’s mother.”
“Tell me about her,” I said. I hoped to keep the conversation away from Hillary’s fate. I had already told too many people. “Tell me what sort of mother she was to Hillary.”
“Hanna was a wonderful mother.” Martha seemed thoughtful. “Very careful. Now, I personally raised my children to be independent. Hanna kept little Hilly awfully close to her. Smothered her, to my way of thinking. Does that sound catty?”
I smiled. “If that’s being catty, please, go ahead. I want to know what Hillary’s home life was like.”
“It was a good life by most measures. The Ramsdales certainly wanted for nothing. If Hanna smothered Hillary, well, perhaps no one could blame her. She wasn’t a young mother, you see. Hillary was a blessing that came somewhat late in life. A surprise, after Hanna and Randy had given up on children. I think that being an only child of older parents can be a special burden, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I can see how it could be. Do you think Hillary was unhappy?”
“Good Lord, no,” Martha snapped. “Randy would not permit his girls to be unhappy. He doted on Hanna and Hillary. He would move mountains for them.”
“You said that Hillary was a surprise. Thinking back, do you think the baby was a welcome surprise?”
“Hanna always said so. She had some female problems. I don’t remember what, exactly. Hanna did tell me that she had lost several pregnancies and had a little one who died very early on. Very sad for her. So of course, after that much heartache, a healthy child like Hillary would be something of a miracle, don’t you think? Now, I only know what Hanna told me. The Ramsdales bought the house next door because of our school district. They moved in in time for Hillary to begin kindergarten. I didn’t know her as a baby.”