Wendy Hornsby - Midnight Baby

“Give me a hand,” she said. We untied the raft and pushed it through the slip until we had cleared the Bayliner’s stern. Regina jumped in, heedless of her white linen slacks, and I followed, gracelessly, bouncing on the rubber bottom. I had just managed to get to my knees when she fired up the powerful outboard motor and blasted out into the channel, knocking me flat.

The bottle of Moet rolled against my leg. I grabbed it and slid into the bow. With my legs stretched out front, my back against the inflated side, I was thoroughly comfortable. Wind snapped through my hair, a fine sea spray chilled my face. I popped open the wine, let the foam spew over the side, then took a big swallow.

“Beautiful,” I shouted over the ratchety motor noise. I passed the bottle into Regina’s outstretched hand.

“Cheers,” she shouted back, and took a slug herself.

With practiced skill, Regina maneuvered the Zodiak through the channel and then cut into the wide bay instead of continuing out toward the open sea.

Both sides of the bay were lined with dense-packed houses, everything from tiny cottages to three-story confections of glass and wood. There was an East Coast feel about it all: old money, restricted entree.

Regina powered up to pass a black-and-gold gondola that was being poled by a striped-shirted, opera-singing gondolier. His passengers were snuggled together drinking red wine. Very romantic. Regina raised our bottle to them and they waved back.

At the mouth of a narrow canal, Regina cut her motor to an idle. We glided into a shady canyon between rows of big houses. The cross streets that had been so confusing to me earlier were charming arched bridges from our perspective. The bridges trailed dusty green ivy and bright bougainvillea from either end. The air was rich with the smells of moss and salt water and star jasmine. The atmosphere was just short of exotic. A secret place discovered.

The houses we passed were magnificent. They faced the canal as they would a street, shamelessly flaunting their graces to passersby. Sunday strollers filled the walkway at the edge of the canal on both sides, festive in the weird clothes Southern Californians wear near water. Altogether it was like a Disneyland ride, a sort of Pirates of the Upper Middle Class. I was having fun.

Every house we passed had a small dock in front. And almost every dock had a boat of some sort, or evidence of a boat: lines, tarps, chains. Some of the docks were furnished with patio chairs and tables, here and there pots of geraniums or trailing succulents.

After the second bridge, Regina killed her motor and coasted to an empty dock. She tossed her line over the metal stanchion and pulled us in close. The house before us was an Italianate mansion with a pink marble terrace overlooking the water. Tall windows along the front must have filled the house with southern light.

It was a warm day. Had it been my house, at least some of the tall windows would have been open. That was my first reaction; a nice place, but stuffy.

I clambered out of the raft and pulled Regina up after me. “Looks awfully quiet,” I said.

“The boat’s gone. I know the neighbor. I can ask her when it sailed.”

“Let’s try the front door first.”

Regina was edgy, excited, definitely high. I wondered if she needed more adventure in her life. As adventures go, the one we were on was so far tame stuff. I let her ring the bell.

When no one answered, I stepped to the first set of terrace doors and brazenly looked inside.

I saw a professionally decorated living room, good antiques, polished wood floors, original artwork on the walls. Everything in order. I went to each set of doors and saw more of the same in different rooms. The message was lots of money, knows how to spend it.

“Maggie?” Regina walked across the terrace toward me waving a gray business card. “This was in the door. Should I just leave it?”

I took the card from her and read: Los Angeles Police Department. When I saw the name next to the gold-embossed detective shield, I got a knot in my stomach. Detective Michael Flint, it said, Robbery-Homicide Division, Major Crimes Section. There was a note on the back in Mike’s careful hand: “Mrs. Ramsdale, please call immediately.”

Patience is a virtue. Unfortunately, it’s not one of mine. In my rush to find out about Hillary, I had neglected some of the essential groundwork. That is, it was not my place to tell Elizabeth Ramsdale that her stepdaughter was dead.

Mike has told me that the most important part of a murder investigation is the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The physical evidence is fresh, and that’s nice when he gets the case into court. But it is usually more important to him to have fresh emotional evidence. When he questions someone, he listens to the body language as closely as he does the verbal answers: an inappropriate laugh, eyelids that drop before an answer, any reaction that catches the liar. For me to spring the news on Elizabeth would be evidence-tampering as egregious as tramping through the murder scene would be.

It was time for me to back off. I went over to the front door and tucked Mike’s card back into the space above the deadbolt where Regina had found it.

I started down the slick marble steps. “Want to take me back now?”

Regina stayed her ground. “While we’re here, let’s talk to the neighbor. She’s such a dear old thing. I’m sure she’s seen us. She’d think it rude if I didn’t stop in to say hello.”

I hesitated. An old lady next door wasn’t the same as talking to the family, but they can be wonderful sources of information.

I smiled at Regina. “Lead the way,” I said.

The neighbor’s house was a slate-gray Cape Cod with white trim and a lot of polished brass. Standing alone it would have been a charming beach cottage. But sandwiched between a faux English Tudor manor house and the Ramsdales’ palazzo, it seemed as contrived as a movie facade.

Regina banged the huge knocker a few times and we were let in by a maid wearing blue jeans and a flowered tunic.

“Have a seat in the living room,” the maid said. “I will tell Martha you’re here.”

“Martha knows they’re here.” The voice was estrogen-deepened, the woman behind it ancient. She came down the stairs leaning heavily on the railing, as wrinkled and fragile-looking as an orphaned baby bird. She offered her crooked hand to Regina, to hold not to shake. “So nice to see you, dear. How are the boys?”

“Getting big,” Regina said, planting a kiss on the powdered cheek. “All except Greg. He keeps hoping, but dammit, Martha, he’s just not going to grow anymore.”

Martha laughed. “Who’s your friend?”

“Martha, this is Maggie MacGowen. She’s a filmmaker and she’s interested in the Ramsdales.”

Martha turned her bright eyes on me. “Whyever would you be interested in the Ramsdales? Unless you’re doing soap opera.”

“Are they good soap-opera material?” I asked.

“Good Lord, yes. Much better than most television. I never rent videos on weekends. So much more interesting to just sit on my terrace and snoop.” She patted Regina’s hand. “Let’s go in and sit down. May I offer you some refreshment?”

Regina rose to the offer. “I wouldn’t mind a double something, on the rocks. How about you, Maggie?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m well past my limit.”

I looked at my watch as I followed them into the living room. I needed to be on the freeway within the hour if I was going to be in Sherman Oaks by six. The time wasn’t my problem. The wine was. I was in no shape to drive. I had known even as I accepted the first glass of champagne that I should stick with soda.

I’m a funny drunk. Charming even, according to my friends. I had never had a problem with booze, really. But I had had a rough year or so, and a little chemically induced happiness had helped me get by now and then. I was beginning to be aware how many evenings over the last few months I had been funny and charming by bedtime. There had been nights that without the help of a bottle of wine or several stiff scotches I wouldn’t have had the courage to go to bed at all.