I made my way to Ralph's well-stocked wet bar. The Crown Royal was there. So was a bottle of MacNaughton's. I poured the Crown Royal and left the MacNaughton's alone. There was a tiny refrigerator-cum-ice-machine under the bar. I threw some ice cubes in a glass and poured a can of Sprite into it for me.
When I gave her the Crown Royal, she looked me straight in the eye.
"Most men find me attractive," she said, "but I get the feeling you don't like me much."
She had me dead to rights. "You worry me," I said.
"Why?"
"Women who do vendettas scare hell out of me, that's all. You know, the female of the species is deadlier than the male and all that jazz. You asked me to help you track down the people responsible for your son's death, remember? And now you're trying to get Ralph Ames to do the same thing."
"So that's it," she said, taking a sip of her drink.
"Of course that's it," I replied impatiently. "Ralph Ames happens to be a super-nice guy, and he's a good friend of mine. I don't want to see him bamboozled into your wild-haired scheme. He's a lawyer, goddamnit, and a good one. If he messes around in an ongoing homicide investigation, you could end up getting him disbarred."
Rhonda Attwood regarded me levelly over the rim of her glass. "It's not what you think," she said. "When I asked you to help me, I didn't know about the baby."
"Baby?" I asked.
"Joey's baby, my grandchild. You're right, when I first talked to you, I didn't care what happened. The only thing I could think of was evening the score. I'd lost him years ago, but I'd always had a secret hope of getting him back. I can't do that now, but I have something else, a grandchild, something of my son that will go on from here. That's why I want to see Ralph, to ask him to help me set up a trust fund for the baby, and the mother too, of course."
"When you change your mind, you do a complete one-eighty, don't you?"
Rhonda smiled and nodded. "So I've been told."
I sat there for a moment and let her words sink in. She was talking as confidently about that baby as though her grandchild were already a living, breathing entity. All I could think about was Michelle Owens' hollow-eyed misery and Guy Owens' despairing pronouncement: "Fifteen and pregnant."
I hated to burst her bubble, but somebody had to do it.
"You'll never see that baby, Rhonda. Michelle is only fifteen. She's still wearing braces. Her father will never let her carry that baby to term. Even if he did, he wouldn't let her keep it."
Instantly two angry splotches of color appeared on Rhonda's cheeks. "It's a baby, Mr. Beaumont, not a stray puppy. Of course she'll keep it. I'll help her. Michelle can come live with me if she wants to. If she has to. Thanks to Ralph, I've just sold five paintings to Vincent at five thousand dollars apiece. That's what I want to use to start the trust fund."
"You're not listening, Rhonda. Twenty-five thousand is only a drop in the bucket of what it would take. We're talking about an adolescent here, a druggie with no education, no prospects, and no husband. What kind of life would that be for her or the baby, either one?"
Rhonda's glass, spewing Crown Royal all the way, sailed past my ear and shattered against the wall behind my head. At the same time, she launched herself from the couch, springing toward me like an outraged, unleashed tiger. I scrambled out of the way, slopping my own drink in my lap, jumping up and catching her wrists just in time to keep her sharpened fingernails from raking my face.
She screamed unintelligible words at me and fought to get loose with surprising strength, but I kept her wrists firmly imprisoned. I don't know how long we struggled like that, but finally I felt the fight ebb out of her. She sagged against my chest, sobbing, as the dam she had built across her emotions broke free.
I let her cry, knowing she was weeping for two babies, not one, for her lost son and for the grandchild she was afraid of losing, for herself and for Michelle Owens as well. I patted her shoulder, murmuring what comforting words of consolation I could think of. They sounded empty and inept. Useless.
At last she gave a shuddering sigh and moved to disengage herself. When I let her go, she crouched near where the glass had smashed and began picking up the jagged pieces.
"Here," I said gruffly, "I'll do that."
She bit her lip. "I'm used to cleaning up my own messes," she said.
Together we cleaned up the splatters of Crown Royal that clung to the wall and the sticky Sprite that dappled the tile floor. Luckily, most of the mess had missed the mint-green oriental rug.
"I really would help her," Rhonda said as she scrubbed the wall. "If she kept the baby, I mean."
"It's not that simple," I returned.
I felt her turn and look at me, sensed the resurgence of anger. "What would you know about it?"
I bridled at the female arrogance that automatically assumes all men are unfeeling, insensitive clods. I wanted to lash out at her and put her in her place, but memories of my own mother's struggles raising an illegitimate son in Seattle in the forties and fifties tempered the fight in me as well.
"More than you know," I answered wearily. "Way more than you know."
For several minutes we worked on in silence. "But couldn't Ralph work out some kind of custody agreement? I could raise the baby myself. Michelle wouldn't have to be responsible."
"The chances for that are pretty slim."
She looked at me for a long time, but finally she nodded in defeat. "I guess you're right." Rhonda glanced at her watch. It was after five, close to five-thirty. "Damn," she said.
"What's wrong now?"
"No matter what I do with the money, I still have to get those paintings over to Vincent. He's already paid for them, and I promised to deliver them this afternoon. The problem is, they won't fit in my car. They're too big. I was hoping I could get Ralph to take me in his, since he's the one who put the whole deal together."
"Where are they?"
"At the Renthrow Gallery, on Main Street in Scottsdale. They close at six."
"I could take you," I offered, "if you think they'll fit in the Subaru."
"Would you mind?"
"Not at all. I'll just leave a note for Ralph so he'll know where to find us."
She looked down at the amber stain on her blouse left by spilled Crown Royal. "I should stop by the hotel and change. It'll only take a minute."
"Sure," I said. "Lead the way."
In the gathering twilight I followed the Fiat out of Ames' driveway and back to MacDonald Drive, where we turned right and made our way to Lincoln Drive to the Red Lion's La Posada. We turned in by the main entrance and went past the huge pool with its immense waterfall. Rhonda led me through a maze of crowded parking lots to the hotel's farthest wing. She parked the Fiat in the only available spot then came up to me in the Subaru.
"Wait here," she said. "It'll only take me a minute to change."
When it comes to changing clothes, women's minutes and men's minutes are often quite different. She was back in less than one, still wearing the same clothes. "Let's go," she said, climbing into the car and slamming the door behind her.
"I thought you were going to change."
"Never mind that. Can't we go now, please?"
Something was seriously wrong, but she wasn't ready to tell me what it was, so I swung the Subaru in a tight circle and wheeled back toward the nearest exit on Lincoln.
"What happened in there?" I asked. "What's the matter?"
"Somebody's been in my room," she said.
"Who? The maid? Room service?"
"No, I mean somebody broke into my room. They've torn the place apart."
I stepped on the brake. "Are they still in there?"
Rhonda shook her head. "No. I don't think so."
"You don't think so? Jesus Christ, woman, you mean you don't know for sure?"