“Your daughter was beautiful,” I said.
She smiled with her eyes, very pleased by the compliment. “Yes, she was. Her beauty was far deeper than mere appearance. Hanna had a lovely spirit.”
“After she died, what happened to Hillary?” Mike asked. She frowned. “The girl was Randy’s ward. She stayed on with him.”
“Mrs. Sinclair,” Mike said, “are you acquainted with a family by the name of Metrano? George and Leslie and their daughter Amy Elizabeth?”
“Metrano?” She thought hard for a moment. Then she shook her head slowly, serious, still thinking. “I can’t say.”
“Amy Elizabeth Metrano,” Mike said again.
Again she shook her head.
My bottom had had enough of the hard cushion. And the hardness of Mrs. Sinclair. The old bench creaked when I stood up. The sound seemed to bother Mrs. Sinclair. She gave me a librarian glare. The air in the room was stale, musty. I felt claustrophobic and started to pace to shake it off. She watched me as I moved around the room, looking at the precious ornaments, the pictures on the walls.
Hanna’s house in Long Beach was open and full of light and air, alive. I wondered whether this room had ever had life. I was reminded again of the museum feel. The Hanna museum.
Mike was questioning Mrs. Sinclair. “You told us that Hillary’s parents died in a boating accident. What do you know about it? Where did it happen? When did it happen? Maybe you remember their names. Anything you can tell us.”
“Their names? Ramsdale, I assume. I never met Randy’s family. They all live in the East. As to where, I believe it was in Mexico. I remember Randy went down there and brought the girl home. She was quite ill for a while. Very upset, until she had to be sedated. Of course, it must have been a frightful ordeal for her to lose both her parents. Hanna and Randy sat at her side for weeks, reassuring her, until she recovered.
“The doctors had long told Hanna that living by the sea would be more healthful for her than living up here. Cooler, you see. And much less smog. When the girl was strong enough, Randy moved them all into a lovely home down at the beach. Had his boat right in front.”
“When was the last time you heard from Randy?” Mike asked.
“Christmas Eve. He took me to dinner – our little tradition.”
“The two of you?” Mike asked. “Or wife and kid, too?”
“The two of us. It would have been awkward for his wife. You see, Randy is still mourning Hanna’s passing.”
I had stopped pacing to look up at the portrait. “Did he tell you he planned to divorce his wife?”
“He did. She was unfaithful.”
“Divorce can be expensive,” I said, turning to her. “Especially for a rich man.”
She smiled slyly. “I said Randy likes to play. I did not mean to imply he is mindless. In fact, Randy is deceptively clever. He had prenuptial agreements with both of the wives who followed Hanna. They were entitled to very small settlements should they divorce. And no death benefits if he predeceased them. From a financial standpoint, it was to their advantage to stay married and keep Randy healthy for as long as possible.”
“He told you this?” Mike asked.
“Indeed. I would say he even boasted about it. But why ask me? Speak with Randy.”
Ah, I thought, tensing, time to pay the piper. Mike and I exchanged glances – whose turn this time? I turned back to the portrait, but Hanna told me nothing.
“Mrs. Sinclair,” Mike said, the professionally bereaved mortician this time, “I am sad to inform you that Randy Ramsdale has passed away.”
She was wordless for so long that I turned around to see if she was still upright. She was. Stiffly upright. So brittle I thought a quick jerk would snap her in half.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Her face was dangerously pale. “Was there an accident?”
“No,” Mike again. “It happened at the hand of another.”
She grasped her throat. “Murder?”
“Yes.”
“Both of them?”
“Hillary and Randy, yes.”
I stepped toward her. “Can I get you something? Some water?”
She shook me off and kept her eyes on Mike. “Is there a will?”
“I don’t know.” He was taken aback. People in shock do and say odd things. I thought it was a telling first reaction.
Mrs. Sinclair began to bend finally. She looked around her room with a longing that was ripe with goodbye.
“You see,” she said, “this all belongs to Randy. This was their house. I am here at his sufferance.”
“He supported you?” Mike asked.
She nodded.
“Are there friends you can call?” I asked. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
I saw her glance flick toward the portrait. Toward Hanna. “I am not alone,” she said.
I was spooked. She never got around to asking how and why either Randy or Hillary died. I guess to her those facts weren’t the essentials. Mike got up from the creaky bench and edged toward the door.
“When you feel up to it, you can call me,” he said. “I’ll try to answer any questions.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Will you be all right?” I tried again.
“Yes. Please excuse me. I need to lie down.” She rose majestically, the starch returned to her spine, and walked slowly toward the door. As we followed her, I noticed she did not lean on the cane.
She didn’t open the front door for us, but stood in the center of the round foyer, her narrow feet planted in the hub of the ornate circular pattern in the parquet floor. Rootless like an ornamental tree.
“Good night,” I said, reaching for Mike’s sleeve as he held the door.
Virginia Sinclair was staring off into the dark beyond the front steps. When we turned to walk out, I heard her gasp. I thought maybe she was waiting for us to leave before she wept. She cleared her throat.
“Just a moment,” she said. “What was that name again?”
“Metrano,” Mike said, going back.
She shook her head. “No, the first name.”
“George? Leslie? Amy Elizabeth?”
“George. I know that was his name. It was some time ago, but I remember him. He worked for Randy, refurbishing a boat. Temporary work. He was quite handy. Randy had him do some repairs around here as well. A nice fellow. A family man down on his luck.”
“When?” Mike asked.
“Years ago. I wouldn’t have thought of him except that we were speaking of Hillary and how she came into the family. When Hillary was so sick, the only soul who could comfort her was George.”
CHAPTER 17
“Got it?” Mike asked.
“I think so.” I turned my face into the icy wind that whistled down through a pass in the mountains above Virginia Sinclair’s mansion. A slice of moon slipped out from under the heavy clouds, casting long, moving shadows like lumbering giants on the slope. Coyotes on a crag nearby saw the moon and set up a howl. Had the coyotes scared little Hillary? Or had they scared Amy Elizabeth?
Mike’s face was in shadow, too, but I knew the expression without seeing it, jaw set, eyes flashing. Controlled rage.
“The situation has changed,” he said. “My people have to get with the federales in Baja, get them to bring in Elizabeth Ramsdale for a rubber-hose job, have them loosen her up for us. I would like to fly down there to talk to her, but I think we’ll let Ma Bell reach out and touch her. Make that Mamacita Bell. I just hope she’s still there. Right now, I’m going to take you home.”
“What about George?”
“If he’s on his boat, the Coast Guard will find him. If he’s with Elizabeth, I will fly down. Him we’ll just shoot, save the state some grief.”
“You talk tough when you’re upset. But it’s still a good idea.”
I put my cheek against his chest and squeezed my eyes shut. The air was clear and sweet, but I couldn’t seem to get enough of it past the constriction in my chest. “He sold his daughter.”
“Looks that way,” Mike said.