“No, but one evening I saw her on the Internet looking at accommodations. I didn’t pay much attention.”
“She was on your computer?”
“Yes, she left her laptop power cord at home accidentally and her battery got low. Normally she never uses my computer.”
Something in her tone suggested she found this odd. Jude suspected it was one of many little things she would start piecing together, attempting to make sense of behavior that made her uneasy.
“Can I see your computer?” Jude stood.
“Yes, of course.” Debbie took her purse from the counter and fished out a set of car keys. “I don’t have another appointment until late. Would you like to stay for an early dinner?”
“Sounds like a plan. Thank you.” Debbie was a great cook and Jude figured she was going to need some time at the computer. She would have to search everything Sandy stored at her girlfriend’s place.
As Debbie locked the shop, she said, “It’s not just me, is it?”
Jude could feel the anxiety radiating from her. “No. It’s not just you.”
A sense of dread washed over her as they walked away from the hair shop. She’d been in a funk ever since the Corban Foley case was wrapped up almost a year ago. It was one thing trying to move beyond the acquittal of the toddler’s killer, but dealing with the foibles of her fickle ex had preoccupied her far more than was acceptable. And while she was feeling pissed at the world in general, and Mercy Westmoreland in particular, she had allowed Sandy Lane to slip out of focus.
How had she not known about the trips out of town until now? She should have noticed the absence of Sandy’s truck, which was a fixture outside Debbie’s home most evenings. She’d been hanging out for an opportunity to search Sandy’s mountain hideaway, assuming she could find it. Sandy’s trips away offered the ideal opportunity. The thought that she’d already missed several chances aggravated her.
“Debbie, where does Sandy live?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have some idea.” Jude could hear her own impatience. Softening her tone, she said, “I’m worried about her. I think we should check to see if she’s at home.”
Debbie hugged herself, plainly mortified. “I thought she was ashamed because she doesn’t have a nice place. So I stopped asking if I could visit with her. I know I should have pushed harder.”
They stopped at Debbie’s car, a beat-up Toyota.
“If she says she’s coming over, how long does it normally take for her to arrive?” Jude asked.
“More than an hour.”
“Okay.” Jude backed off. She didn’t want to pressure Debbie too much in case she relayed their conversation to Sandy.
She waited for Debbie to start her car before getting into the Dakota. She wished she’d tried harder to talk to Sandy, but very few women unsettled her as the former paratrooper did and she’d been reluctant to push her luck during their private interactions. They always seemed to be circling each other in an unspoken ritual of dominance, sniffing out weaknesses, testing will.
By stepping back and letting Sandy move out of reach, Jude had blinked first.
*
“Finally.” Pippa honked her horn and almost fell out the driver’s door.
The car bays in front of Uncle Fabian’s log cabin—more of a log mansion, really—were arranged in a semicircle and were all on an incline. She hoped her SUV wouldn’t roll down the hill onto the main road. Her mouth watered at the prospect of a long, cold drink. The kneel-down bread, with its sweetcorn and green chilies, had made her so thirsty she’d even guzzled a can of warm Diet Coke that had been rolling around under her seat since she left Boston.
Pippa bounced up the front steps, marveling over the turquoise-inlaid handrail. She paused on the front verandah and turned around to take in the view. On the other side of the highway, the Dolores River ran through mountain meadows and tall pines. Above her, the San Juan Mountains loomed like silent guardians of a hidden world. She felt incredibly lucky to be here.
There was no doorbell, just a cast-iron knocker. Pippa tapped it out of good manners. She had a set of keys, but it seemed rude to barge in when she’d never visited before. There was no answer to her knock and no barking from her uncle’s poodle, Coco. She called out a couple of times, then wandered along the verandah and looked in the windows. Her uncle was probably out shopping. Coco would be with him.
Pippa tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. Uncle Fabian tended to be paranoid about security because he had so many valuable art works. Pippa stepped into a slate-tiled entry hall and called, “Uncle Fabian, it’s me.”
She stared around a great room to her right with a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. Pippa took the steps down to this huge L-shaped entertainment area. A moss stone fireplace occupied the center of the room, above it a huge portrait of Geronimo her uncle had commissioned when Pippa was just a kid. She could still remember an argument over dinner between Uncle Fabian and her father about Geronimo. Uncle Fabian said Prescott Bush and several other members of Yale’s Skull and Bones society desecrated the chief’s grave and stole his skull and other relics. Her father, a Yalesman, said the story was just a myth.
Pippa listened for the sound of her uncle’s voice from somewhere in the huge home. Logs were stacked on either side of the fireplace, which was shielded on all sides by decorative guards. High above, a second-story mezzanine stretched the length of the great room. A few armchairs stood in one corner, arranged around a low table. Pippa heard a slight thud and recalled her uncle mentioning his office was upstairs. She strolled over to the wide staircase and began climbing, gazing down into the incredible room.
Her mother would have dismissed the décor as “basic.” She’d crammed their home in Chestnut Hill with antiques and Persian rugs. But Pippa could see why her uncle had chosen simplicity. With such majestic views, it would be silly to clutter the room with ostentatious furnishings. A few rugs were scattered around the timber floors, various Ute and Navajo artifacts hung from the walls, and the sofas and chairs were upholstered in leather or fabric, in earthy colors. The sensibility was perfect for the location.
For a few seconds, Pippa thought about phoning her parents to let them know she’d arrived safely, but she decided to spare herself. They’d probably forgotten she was even on the road, and she couldn’t stand the thought of another conversation with her mother about the mistake she was making. Her parents blamed Fabian for her decision not to accept the job they’d arranged for her even though she hadn’t told him until after she’d rejected the offer.
Fabian was the black sheep of the family, and no one would tell her why. Pippa once asked him and he said her mother thought a gay man shouldn’t have inherited Maulle Mansion in New Orleans. It had been passed from father to son for over two hundred years and since he wasn’t going to have children, she thought the house should be hers. The place was falling apart and Pippa knew her parents planned to sell it if they could overturn the will. Their lawsuit had been thrown out and Fabian spent the next fifteen years restoring the home to its former splendor.
No one knew exactly where he got all his money. Her dad said he’d made a fortune in real estate and venture capital, and even more in hedge funds. He was a philanthropist, which peeved Pippa’s parents because it meant, in the end, he’d leave everything to the poodle rescue or some foundation for orphans in Darfur. They thought her brother Ryan should get everything.
As she reached the top of the stairs, Pippa almost tripped over her uncle’s antique ebony cane. Ever since a skiing accident, he’d had a knee problem and used the cane. She reached down for it but froze, her fingers hovering inches from the smooth silver ball head. Her heart raced at double time. Even as she registered the wet, red smear over the silver, her mind only foggily interpreted what she saw. Blood.
Pippa clamped her hand over her mouth, stifling her instinctive cry and listening intently. Something crawled from the eerie stillness, stealing the air from the upstairs hallway. She tried to breath but all she could do was gasp. Panic jerked her into motion. She rushed along the hallway. Her foot slid on something. More blood.
A wail rose in her throat. There’d been an accident. “Uncle Fabian, I’m here,” she cried, pushing the nearest door wide, expecting to see her uncle wrapping his hand in a bandage.
A voice croaked, “Pippa?” and she stumbled across the room to the man sprawled on the floor.
“Oh, God. What happened? Oh, my God.” She didn’t know where to look, what to touch. She lifted her uncle into her arms.
A wet groan rose from him. “They killed Coco.”
“Who? Who did this?”
He forced out the words, “They don’t know anything.”
Her mind screamed
Help! Someone, please help!
She had to call 911. What was she doing holding him instead of getting an ambulance? She freed a hand and pulled her cell phone from her jeans. Her mouth shook so much she had trouble speaking.
“Don’t try to talk, Uncle Fabian. I’m calling 911. You’re going to be fine.”
“It’s too late.” He lifted a hand but it fell back. Blood ran from the corners of his mouth. His shirt was soaked. “I’m dying, sweetheart.”
Pippa jabbed the numbers. “No, you’re not. Don’t say that.”
“Ask Oscar,” he choked. A violent tremor shook his body.
“Uncle Fabian,” Pippa wailed.
She dropped the phone and bent over him, trying to hear his heart. The position was too awkward. He was slipping away. His face was chalk white beneath the blood and bruising. Frantically, she laid him flat on the floor, desperate to revive him. She didn’t know where to start. She tore open his soaked shirt. Blood welled slowly from several different places on his torso.
She snatched up her cell phone again. Thank God. Someone was waiting at the other end. “Hello,” Pippa gasped.
“Dispatch. Can I help you?”
“Send an ambulance. Oh, God. I can’t remember the address. It’s on Railroad Avenue, near Stoner. A big log home on the left. Please hurry.”
“Calm down,” the operator said. “Tell me what’s happened.”
Fabian shuddered and Pippa juggled the phone so she could hold him again.
“Ma’am?”
“Someone’s hurt my uncle,” Pippa sobbed. “I think he’s been stabbed.”
She bent low over the bloody man in her arms and urged, “Just hold on, Uncle Fabian. The ambulance is coming.”
Her uncle blinked through the blood that coated his eyes. He spoke in short bursts. “Ask him…where the box is…”
“Don’t worry.” Pippa glanced up at the birdcage near the windows. Her uncle’s beloved African Grey cowered where the cover formed a shadow. “I’ll take care of Oscar till you’re better.”
Fabian’s mouth moved in what seemed like a smile. “I love you, Pip.”
“I love you, too.” Tears poured down her cheeks.
The dispatcher said, “Ma’am. Talk to me. Is the person who attacked your uncle still on the premises?”
Pippa stifled a scream of fright and stared toward the door. “I don’t know.”
A wet, soft gurgle sounded in her uncle’s chest. “Ask Oscar,” he said one more time, then his eyes rolled back and he relaxed in her arms.
Pippa sank down over the one person in the world she felt truly close to. Through a web of tears and snot, she cried, “He’s dead. Oh, God. He’s dead.”
Chapter Five
“That’s the niece?” Jude asked, indicating a chalk-faced young woman wrapped in a blanket and sitting on the front step with a female paramedic.
“Yeah, Phillipa Calloway. She’s the one called it in.” The state patrol trooper handed her ID back.
Jude wasn’t first on scene, by far. The driveway leading up the log home was lined with black and white Dodge Durangos, the patrol vehicles used by the MCSO. The house was taped off and the surrounding area crawled with deputies and state troopers. Sheriff Pratt had summoned her, as he did for any homicides out of the ordinary. This one promised to be a high-profile case. The dead man was not just wealthy, he was a respected benefactor of local causes. Fabian Maulle purchased state-of-the-art medical equipment for Southwest Memorial, paid the college fees of several Ute kids nominated by the Tribal Council, and supported police charities. Around the Four Corners, the very private millionaire was seen as a real philanthropist, a man in a different league from the hedge-fund honchos who threw their weight around every ski season.