“They were apparently driving from this house into Acapulco yesterday afternoon. They were found in their car, upside down in an arroyo, both dead.”
“That’s very upsetting,” Wells said, frowning, “an awful accident.”
“It was not an accident, Señor Wells,” the capitán said. “Their car was apparently run off the road and into the ditch; both women were shot once each, with a small-caliber handgun.”
“Good God! Why would anyone harm them?”
“Apparently to rob them, señor. Both their handbags had been removed from the car and emptied on the ground beside it. There was no money or jewelry among the belongings. Also, one of the women, the driver, showed marks on her left wrist of having worn a watch, which was missing.”
“I’m going to have to get in touch with their families,” Wells said.
“Perhaps it would be better if I did that,” the capitán replied. “If you will give me the number.”
Wells looked at his wristwatch. “I’ll have to call the studio,” he said and went to the phone. After speaking to personnel he handed the capitán the names and numbers of their next of kin.
“May I ask, Señor Wells, why you did not have these numbers yourself?”
“I don’t know their families, Capitán; I have only the number of the apartment they share. When you speak to the families, would you please convey my condolences and tell them I will bear any expense involved in returning their remains to Los Angeles?”
“Of course, Señor Wells. If you will permit me, I will place these arrangements in the hands of a mortuary known to me, and they will send you a bill. Normally, in cases of this kind, the remains are cremated, which makes transport more convenient.”
“Whatever their families wish, Capitán, and I am very grateful for your help in this matter. Tell me, do you have any idea who did this?”
“No, señor, not yet. We found a stolen car abandoned in Acapulco that had paint from the women’s car on its bumper, but the car had been carefully cleaned of fingerprints.”
“I would appreciate it if you would keep me informed on the investigation,” Wells said. “And when you have spoken to their families, would you ask to whom and where I should send the belongings they left here?”
“Of course. And now we would like to speak to your housekeeper, if we may, and see their belongings.”
“This way,” Wells said, rising.
Half an hour later they were gone, seeming satisfied. With the women silenced and Jack Cato disappearing into Mexico, Wells began to breathe easier.
57
EAGLE AND SUSANNAH got back to his Santa Fe house by late afternoon and unpacked. They were having a drink when the phone rang, and Eagle answered.
“Ed, it’s Bob Martínez.”
“Hi, Bob.”
“An update for you: Detective Reese is in Los Angeles with an arrest warrant for Jack Cato, on a double-murder charge.”
“Donna Wells and her son?”
“Yes. We can put him in Santa Fe when Susannah was shot, too, but we still have more work to do on that.”
“Are you arresting Don Wells? By the way, I am no longer representing him.”
“When we get Cato in custody and back to Santa Fe we’ll make him an offer in the hope of getting him to turn on Wells. Grif Edwards is dead.”
“I heard.”
“There are still the two women who alibied Cato and Edwards, but they seem to have left L.A., so Cato is our only shot right now at implicating Wells. New York may have a chance, though.”
“Why?”
“They think Wells may have murdered his wife’s first husband, but they were unable to make a case at the time. Now they’ve cracked his alibi for the time of the murder, so they’re reopening the case. Of course, we’d rather see him go down in Santa Fe.”
“Of course.”
“The LAPD has lifted surveillance on your ex-wife, and, quite frankly, we don’t know where she is; maybe gone back to San Francisco. I’m not sure you can rest easy while she’s on the loose.”
“Thanks for calling, Bob. Please keep me abreast of developments.” He hung up and told Susannah the details of the conversation.
“Ed,” Susannah said, “do you think we’re safe now?”
“Yes, I do.”
“With Barbara still out there somewhere?”
“I don’t think we’re going to have to worry about Barbara anymore.”
“I don’t like the way you said that. You haven’t done anything stupid, have you?”
“That remains to be seen,” Eagle said.
A CHAUFFEURED MERCEDES called at La Reserve for Barbara at seven o’clock and drove her to a local marina. The driver held her door for her. “Madam, I’m told the yacht is on slip one hundred, at the end of the main pier,” he said, pointing.
She tipped and thanked him, then walked through the gate and down the pier. As she came to the pontoon at the end and turned a corner, the yacht came into view. Oh, gorgeous, she thought. Not only is this man the heir to a great fortune, he has impeccable taste in yachts.
A uniformed crew member stood at the end of the gangplank. “Mrs. Keeler?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Captain Ted,” the man said. “Welcome aboard Enticer. Mr. Gillette is waiting for you on the afterdeck. This way, please.”
He led her down the port side of the yacht, and she noted the gleaming varnished mahogany and the teak decks. As she rounded a corner, Ron Gillette stood up to greet her, resplendent in a blue blazer and white linen trousers.
“Barbara! Welcome aboard!” He offered her a comfortable chair, then a steward appeared with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot Grand Dame and poured them both a glass.
“Ted,” Gillette said, “I think we can get under way now.” He turned back to Barbara. “The other couple I mentioned in my card who were meant to join us are having sitter problems and won’t be coming. I hope you won’t mind dining alone with me.”
“Not in the least,” she said, giving him her best smile.
Lines were taken in, and the yacht moved, nearly silently, away from the dock, and headed toward the Pacific.
“Where are we cruising?” she asked.
“I’ve left that to our captain, Ted; he knows these waters well.”
“The yacht is very beautiful. Tell me about her.”
“My grandfather had her designed in 1935, by John Trump, and built in New Jersey; she’s been in the family ever since. Last year, I put her through a complete renovation-electrics, engines, navigational equipment-so she’s now virtually a new yacht.”
“New yachts aren’t this beautiful,” Barbara said.
The steward appeared with hors d’oeuvres: bits of foie gras on toast and beluga caviar with little buckwheat cakes and sour cream.
“Would you prefer iced vodka with your caviar?” Gillette asked.
“Thank you, I prefer the champagne. You were kind to remember that I liked it.”
The yacht turned northward and cruised along slowly as the sun sank into the Pacific and Ron Gillette coaxed information from her and talked on and on about his family and his life as a world traveler. Barbara believed she might have met her fifth husband.
When darkness fell they moved into the saloon, where a sumptuous dinner was served by the steward and the chef. Soft piano music played from a hidden sound system, and the stars came out.
Slowly, as they dined, the yacht turned toward the west and continued until it was on a southerly heading. With the sun down, this was not obvious from the saloon.
AFTER DESSERT THEY moved to a comfortable sofa while the dishes were taken away. The steward served them cognac. “Will that be all, Mr. Gillette?”
“Yes, thank you, Justin. We’d like to be alone now.”
“Certainly, sir. You won’t be disturbed.” He vanished.
Gillette and Barbara clinked glasses and sipped their brandy, then he leaned over and kissed her lightly under the ear.
“What lovely perfume,” he said, nibbling at her earlobe.