“I’m sorry, Leslie,” I said. “I’m really sorry.”
“I have to go now. I have to go collect the night receipts.”
“No.” I reacted hard, nearly shouted. “Don’t go. Get someone else to do it. Or call the police and get an escort.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“I hope so. Is it a lot of money?”
“Yes.”
“Does George need money?”
“George always needs money. What are you saying, that he would steal from me?”
“He’s already stolen your house out from under you. What’s left?”
“He wouldn’t hurt me. I have to go, or I start paying my night manager overtime.”
Mike had been listening to my end of the conversation. I handed him the receiver. “Make her understand.”
“Understand what?”
“George took his boat and went fishing off Baja. She hasn’t heard from him since Saturday. Now she’s on her way to pick up the night receipts from her burger places. It’s a lot of money.”
Mike was persuasive. I hoped Leslie was as bright as she seemed. I heard him do his tough-cop windup to get her attention, then he gentled his pitch. By the time he hung up, he sounded like someone’s dear old dad. Then he immediately dialed the Long Beach police. He should go on the stage. Without more than a breath between roles, he switched from Dad to one of the big guys, using police boy-talk to get a promise of an escort dispatched to the Metrano house, pronto.
When he hung up the second time, he turned and grabbed me by the arm. “John Smith, huh? Met a guy by that name in a motel once.”
“Should we go down to Long Beach?”
“And do what?” He walked me to the car and opened the door for me. “The locals will take good care of her.”
“Elizabeth is in Cabo San Lucas. Cabo is at the southern tip of Baja.”
“Yeah. And that’s a long way from Long Beach.”
“It begins to come together,” I said.
“Let’s go talk to Grandma.”
The address Mike had for Hanna Ramsdale’s mother was almost San Marino, in the rocky foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. We found the house on a narrow, winding street of gracious old mansions set in vast grounds. Mike turned into the drive with Sinclair on the mailbox in shiny brass letters.
The house was old enough to be classic, 1920s I guessed. It had been built to conform to the rugged slope behind it, a spill of white Mission Revival cubes and turrets topped with red tile that rose out of a broad hollow, like a Moorish castle in a pop-up book. Up the bank behind the house, cacti and spidery sage were artfully planted among huge granite boulders, picked out by spotlights; gray-green sentinels in the night.
Mike pulled into the circular drive and stopped beside a massive saguaro.
Mrs. Sinclair – Virginia Sinclair, Mike told me – answered the door herself. I don’t guess ages very well, but I figured she was at least as old as the house. Her body had outlived its hide: the thin, patchy skin was stretched so tight across the strong bones that a big smile would surely break it. But we seemed to be in no danger of that occurring. She reminded me of some of my mother’s friends, stiff academic wives who shudder at slang and dance an even-sided box step at faculty teas without swaying their hips. I know from experience they make good targets for spit wads shot from under refreshment tables. They never react when they get hit.
Mrs. Sinclair did not know we were coming. It was ten o’clock and she wore a high-buttoned white blouse, a pleated skirt, and a cardigan with brass buttons. Her shoes were good leather, low heels. Not new but well-kept. Everything about her seemed old but well-kept. She was tall and imperious, leaning lightly on a dog-headed cane.
Mike showed her his ID. “We want to talk to you about your granddaughter,” he said.
“My granddaughter?” Her voice was deep, almost masculine. She stood as if guarding the door against us. “You mean Hanna, my daughter. Hanna is deceased.”
“Not Hanna,” Mike said. “Hanna’s daughter.”
Virginia Sinclair seemed confused. “Hanna had no children,” she said.
“Hillary Ramsdale,” I said.
“Hillary,” she said, a light coming on. “Of course. But Hillary wasn’t Hanna’s daughter. She was my son-in-law’s cousin, I believe.”
I looked over at Mike, feeling prickly all over.
“May we come in?” Mike said.
“Of course.”
Mrs. Sinclair moved aside for us to enter. She led us through the turreted foyer and into a high-ceilinged sitting room furnished with dark Mediterranean antiques. The room was beautiful the way a museum room is beautiful. And, like a museum, it was oppressive, a monument to long-dead craftsmen. And perhaps occupants as well.
Over the mantel hung an almost life-size oil portrait of a younger Mrs. Sinclair, seated in the same ornately carved chair she now sat down on, sitting with the same straight posture, her hands resting on the head of the same cane, re-creating the pose. It was eerie, because Hanna was in the portrait with her, standing beside the chair with her hand on her mother’s shoulder. Looking at Mrs. Sinclair, an older echo of the woman in oils, I had the sense that her daughter stood there beside her. Mike saw it, too, and squeezed my hand.
Hanna was beautiful. She resembled her mother, though the features in the second generation had been refined, the bones cast more delicately, the contours rounded. Perhaps the genes had been overrefined, and the softness about her was symptomatic of her precarious health.
I sat down opposite Mrs. Sinclair, on a high bench with a carved back and an unforgiving cushion. My feet did not quite reach the floor.
Mike stood beside me with his hand on my shoulder, mocking the scene she had set, perhaps to wrest control from her. “Tell us about Hillary,” he said.
“Where is the child?” she asked.
I felt sour acid rise in my throat. “Hillary is deceased.”
“I see.” Her high, smooth brow drew into a frown. “She seemed a healthy girl. A bit strong-willed, perhaps. But then that is a Ramsdale family trait.”
“Hillary lived with Hanna and Randy,” I said, drawing her back to the topic.
“Yes. I don’t recall the exact circumstance of how that arrangement came to pass. Something about a boating accident involving her parents. The Ramsdales were boat builders, you know. Clipper ships originally, I believe. More recently, yachts.”
“We didn’t know,” I said. “We had no idea what Randy did for a living.”
She smiled behind her veined hand. “Randy played for a living. The family paid him handsomely to stay away from the business. Very wisely, in my opinion.”
Mike sat down then beside me. “You didn’t approve?”
“I did approve. Most fully. My Hanna had a heart problem, you see. We didn’t expect her to live as long as she did. I give all credit to Randy. He was a man with uncommon determination. He would have done anything humanly possible to make her happy, to give her a life.”
“Did Hanna want a child?” I asked.
“Oh, yes.” She raised her sharp chin. “A child of her own was of course impossible. That’s why Randy took on a little ward. Hanna doted on Hillary. And such a pet she was.”
I looked at Mike. “A pet?”
“Pretty girl,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “Very sweet. I’m sorry to hear she died.”
“How old was Hillary when Randy brought her home?”
“Just school age. Otherwise it would have been impossible for Hanna to manage. An hour or two in the afternoon, stories after dinner. Anything more would have destroyed her.”
I had finally reached the bottom of the roller-coaster ride, though my insides were still catching up. Virginia Sinclair was a spoiled woman, with the innate coldness that comes from getting one’s way too often. She was the sort who bought their children live bunnies for Easter because they were charming. Then set them out for the coyotes when they crapped on the carpet.