“Do me a favor?” I asked.
“What?”
“Find out what George Metrano does for a living.”
“He’s a restaurateur. As in he has a couple of Bingo Burgers franchises.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?”
“Why should you care?”
“It might be worth your while to find out where he got the money to buy his franchises. And when.”
“Maggie,” Mike sighed. “Enough, all right? Stay out of it. Let the police do their job.”
“Mike, I’m only doing my job.” I felt stung.
“Yeah? Your job is anything you want to make it.”
“I know. That’s what I like about it.”
“Go home, Maggie.” His voice broke. “If I lost you…”
I couldn’t let him say it.
“Listen to this,” I said. “The film opens with Pisces on the street. That whole clip only lasts a few minutes, but it will run through the entire piece, intercut with footage of kids raised in privileged circumstances, like her. I think there are some beautiful insights there. I’ll slip in pictures of her murderer in full retreat, among brief interviews with the Ramsdales’ friends and neighbors about how charmed her life seemed. We’ll end with the autopsy stills. What do you think?”
“Whose autopsy? Hillary’s or yours?”
“Mike, all I am trying to do is come to some clear understanding of why this dear child ended up as she did. I’m not looking for her killer. I’m not interfering with the investigation.”
“You already said he’s following you.” Mike sounded like my father when he lectured me. “He saw you on the street with the kid. And now he sees you all over town. You couldn’t have done a better job of baiting him if you had put a hook in your mouth and tossed him the line.”
“He never got near me,” I said, defensive. “I know how to take care of myself.”
“Right. Like you’ve done such a good job so far? Maybe you should run an ad in the local paper. ‘Dear Mr. Killer, I got your ugly face on film twice now, but don’t worry about me. I’m only doing my job. Love, Miz Maggie MacGowen.’ Jesus Christ, Maggie. Get out of it.”
“I’m sorry about your car, Mike. I’m having the bills sent to me. I’ll be by later for my things.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” I sighed. I hung up, hurting in the general region of my heart.
Before the tow truck left, I retrieved Sly’s stuff from Mike’s front seat.
For fourteen dollars, including fifty free miles a day, I got a used Toyota with eighty-five thousand miles on it. All I asked was that it be in running order. And that’s all they delivered.
Martha had told me she planned to go stay with a daughter in Scottsdale until things cooled down next door. She had a reservation on a late flight out of John Wayne Airport. I buckled Sly’s stuff into the front passenger seat of the rented car and drove back over the bridge to check on her. I was afraid for her to be alone.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be seen out here with me,” I said to Martha when we were settling into chaise lounges on her front terrace. “Seems I’m being followed by a mad slasher.”
“Seems you are, indeed,” she said, her eyes bright, excited. “The man does have an affinity for rubber, doesn’t he? Were you frightened?”
“I didn’t have time to be frightened.” I laughed, but my hand covered the thin skin of my neck.
Martha had poured me a tall glass of iced tea from a big pitcher. I took a gulp and nearly gagged. She hadn’t warned me she was serving Long Island iced tea, not Lipton’s. I managed to keep it down, but my eyes watered and my throat closed up.
“Tea go down the wrong way, dear?”
“Mmmhmm,” I mumbled.
“Such a shame about Mike’s car.” Martha crossed her thin ankles. “He wasn’t angry, was he?”
I had some breath back. “Not about the car.”
“I see.” She had that wise look on her face. “I do like Mike, Maggie. There’s no bullshit about him, is there?”
“None.”
“What are you going to do next?”
“Well.” The Ramsdale house drew me. Several times, while I talked with Martha, I felt my attention drift toward the terrace next door.
“Maggie?”
“I’d give anything for another peek inside that house. Without Mike.”
“You would get into trouble.”
“I’m sure I would.” I turned back to Martha. “Tell you what. You have some time to kill before your plane. I wonder if you’d mind telling me again what you told me yesterday about the Ramsdales, only this time on videotape.”
She patted her hair at the sides and crinkled her face into a smile. “I always wanted to be a movie star. Mother wouldn’t hear of it.”
“You’ll hardly be a star from this gig. But I’ll send along any fan mail you generate.”
“When shall we begin?”
“Soon as I haul out the gear. I’ll bring a crew around another time to do it right. But I want to make a rough cut to show the grant people where I’m headed. It might be fun.”
While I fumbled with tapes and half-charged batteries, Martha went inside to fix her makeup and change into dark slacks; she had heard the camera added ten pounds. When she came out, she waved a cigarette in a foot-long holder. Like Garbo.
“Nice touch,” I laughed.
“I thought you would appreciate it.” She draped herself on the chaise, deflated bosom thrust forward, cigarette poised aloft. All she needed was a fur boa and a palm fan. “Where do we begin?”
“I’m not quite ready,” I said, waiting for the cigarette to burn out. “Talk to me. How long are you staying at your daughter’s?”
“Only a few days, I hope. I have to take my cat to the kennel. He hates the kennel.” She looked over at the Ramsdale palazzo. “My cat put me in mind of something, Maggie.”
“What’s that?”
“Hillary’s birds. We used to trade off – she would feed my cat, I would feed her birds when she was away. What I was wondering was, where are Hillary’s birds?”
“I didn’t see any birds in the house last night. Where did she keep them?”
“In her room.”
“We only got as far as the master bedroom.”
Martha was calm. “We have to do something. She loved those birds.”
“I can call the police.”
“It would take too long. Elizabeth has been gone quite some time. Those birds must be hungry by now. Wait here.”
Martha’s legs couldn’t keep up with her torso as she rushed inside. She was leaning so far forward I was afraid she would fall on her face. But she didn’t. She came out again in a moment, waving a key this time.
“Hanna gave me a key for pet-feeding purposes and emergencies.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police about the key last night?” I asked, close on her heels. “They destroyed the front door.”
“What, tell them and spoil their fun?”
She walked straight down the side of her house and up to the Ramsdales’ back door. The front door had been boarded over and sealed by the police. Though there was no warning attached to the back, I knew better than to open the door. So I let Martha do it.
The house was as we had seen it the night before, except that it was even lovelier with bright sunlight flooding through the tall windows. Martha hardly gave anything a glance, she was so intent on getting upstairs. When we reached the top, she was out of breath and dangerously red in the face.
“Why don’t you sit down,” I said. “Point out Hillary’s room. I can check on the birds.”
She pulled in a breath, an effort. “End of the hall. Last door.”
I waded through the thick carpet. At Hillary’s door, I hesitated before I turned the knob. Casey’s room was sacred, private territory. Mothers by invitation only. In ordinary circumstances, Hillary, I was sure, would not have liked this invasion.
The bird cage sat opposite the windows on a filigreed white wrought-iron stand. It was covered. And silent.