“With a lawyer present.” Ms. Stone tossed in her two cents.
“A lawyer? Heavens. Do you officers think Ashley needs a lawyer?” She smiled again. I'll bet she uses a lot of those Crest whitening strips.
“It's up to you, ma'am.” Ceepak turned to Ashley. “Would you be more comfortable at home?”
“Yes, sir. If that's all right with you.” The way the kid said it? Broke my heart.
Ceepak's too.
So the ex-Mrs. Hart took her daughter's hand and led her outside to their Mercedes. Two state police cars escorted them home. Ms. Stone told us she was checking into a B amp;B and would be remaining in Sea Haven “for the rest of the weekend.”
Ceepak said that was swell, or words to that effect.
Then he and I climbed back into the Ford Explorer and headed south to Ashley's house.
We still had diddly-squat.
“Mrs. Hart doesn't seem too upset by the murder,” Ceepak says.
“Because she hated his guts.”
A few years back, “The Broken Harts” bumped the Martians and Elvis off the front covers of all the supermarket tabloids. I never buy the gossip rags, I just read them while I wait in the express line behind people who can't count to fifteen.
I know Hart's ex-wife (she was his third) scored the Sea Haven beach house in the divorce settlement but she didn't score much else. She had signed an “ironclad pre-nup” and all she got as a parting gift was the house and a small monthly allowance (which I'm sure is more money than Ceepak and me make all year-combined).
The house is about six miles south of town in Beach Crest Heights, a gated community on the golden tip of the island, where even the sea shanties cost two or three million dollars and come with private pristine beaches.
We pass the Beach Crest gatehouse and drive down to 1500 Rodeo Drive. The guy who developed Beach Crest? He named all his streets after the ones in Beverly Hills.
There's a state police car parked out front of the mansion and two troopers standing guard. They wave us into the big circular driveway.
Flowers that shouldn't grow anywhere near the beach blossom alongside the paved walkway to the front door. The shrubs are trimmed to look like pompons on a stick or a frou-frou poodle's tail.
The house could be a modern art museum or something, all sharp angles and stone and glass. It almost disappears into the dunes, except, of course, that it's huge and there's no way not to see it.
I see six matching suitcases of various sizes and shapes sitting near the manicured flowerbeds. I figure they belong to Ms. Stone and came from the guesthouse. If that was where she was really bunking. I see her legs, I have my doubts.
“Mrs. Hart is in the solarium,” this old guy at the front door tells us. I guess he's the butler, like that guy with the accent who used to be on Joe Millionaire. I bet there's a scullery maid, too. I don't know what a scullery is, but rich people always have a maid for it.
“This way, if you please.”
He sounds like he studied Snooty Attitude 101 at the Butler Institute of Technology.
“Thank you,” Ceepak says and we scuff our heels across this gigantic marble-and-glass foyer. You can see the sea and sand dunes through the three-story windows in front of us, and all the furniture is either white or tan so it looks like it's made out of sand, like the beach rolls in, right through the windows.
“We're in here!”
She sounds even friendlier and bubblier than she did at the station, and the sun pouring into the solarium makes her dazzling smile seem brighter too.
Now I remember. Years ago, when I was kid, she used to be a weather girl on TV. Betty Something. Betty Bell. She met Reginald Hart at a charity bazaar where she was the emcee and he was the highest bidder, so to speak. I know-I spend far too much time reading in the checkout lane.
I remember watching Betty Bell “Your Friendly Weather Gal” when she was on TV. She had this sweet and sexy way of pointing at her weather map or rolling her arms to let you know a cold front was tumbling into town. She was chipper and perky and her suns always had smiley faces drawn on them and she wore these really tight pink sweaters all winter long. Fuzzy, soft sweaters that hugged her up top, which is all you can really see on TV anyhow. I was only nine or ten at the time, but seeing her in those cuddly pink sweaters, rolling her arms, pointing at cold fronts, kind of made me wish winter could last all year.
“Please, officers, have a seat.”
Betty Bell Hart hasn't been on TV in years, but she could be. She's blonde, poised, and gorgeous. I'm sure she's had “work” done, but her workers did a very good job.
“I apologize for making you gentlemen drive all the way down here,” she says.
“No problem,” Ceepak says. “We understand.”
I nod, glad to be included among the understanding.
“When they called, I-”
“You were up in the city?”
“That's right. Usually Ashley and I come down here together on summer weekends.”
We listen intently.
“But Ashley's father requested one summer weekend with his daughter, so I let him borrow my beach house. I stayed in the city.”
“That's where you and Ashley live?”
“It's our primary residence. I was granted sole custody. Mr. Hart, however, retained certain visitation rights.”
Much to my surprise, she opens a box on the coffee table and takes out a cigarette. She lights it with this big clunky thing that I thought was a decorative rock. It stinks. Real bad-worse than cigarettes usually do. Clove has never been one of my favorite odors, not since second grade when I punctured my thumb on one pressing it into an apple for my mom to hang in her closet.
“Do you mind?” She, of course, only asks after her stink bomb is burning like a wet pile of leaves and the solarium goes partly cloudy.
Ceepak shrugs. He could care less.
“So this was your ex-husband's weekend with Ashley?”
“That's right. From time to time he might arrange to take a weekend off and spend it with his daughter.” Betty exhales slowly to give us time to realize what kind of father Reginald Hart must have been.
“Then he would typically hire some bright young computer person to play video games with her, as he himself would be busy with all the work he brought along in his briefcase….” She made a quick grimace. “Of course, Reginald also remained very proud of Ashley's many accomplishments. Even if he was rarely able to attend any functions at school.”
“I was Emily in Our Town.” This from Ashley now.
“Grover's Corners,” Ceepak offers. “Thorton Wilder.”
This display of dramatic trivia is impressive and the two blondes beam. Here's a manly man who knows his Broadway and isn't afraid to admit it.
“I only wish her father could have seen the play. Unfortunately, he was otherwise engaged. Hong Kong, opening another new hotel.”
“So, the two of you spent time together out here?” Ceepak says encouragingly. “You and your dad?”
Ashley nods.
“Did he do any work this weekend?”
“Yes. Some. He and Ms. Stone were pretty busy most of Friday. So I swam in the pool and read and stuff. He worked on his laptop.”
“We'd like to look at that,” Ceepak says to Ashley's mom. “His computer?”
“Certainly. I'll ask James to find it for you.”
James. The butler's name is James. Figures. I wonder if it's his real name or one he just uses for work. You know-like The Rock. I'm sure The Rock's parents didn't put “The Rock” on his birth certificate.
“Can you tell us what happened?” Ceepak says to Ashley. “This morning? At the Tilt-A-Whirl?”
“He's still out there, isn't he?” Ashley's eyes swing around the glass-walled sunroom. “The man who shot my father. He could be right outside these windows right now….”
“Don't worry,” Ceepak tells her. “I won't let him hurt you. I won't let anybody hurt you.”
“Promise?”