J. Jance - Hand of Evil

“Arabella Ashcroft killed people,” Ali said. “She told me so herself. She’s a murderess, Mr. Brooks. You’ve looked after her for years. When you saw what was happening tonight, you made sure she had legal representation. What more could you have done?”

“I could have put her in the Rolls, turned on the engine, and locked her in the garage,” he said. “At least that way she wouldn’t be under arrest.”

“But you would be,” Ali said. “What good would that do? How many years of your life have you devoted to this woman, who deliberately tried to pin one of her own murders on you?”

Brooks sighed. “Too many to count,” he said.

“You’ve done enough for her,” Ali said. “Far more than most people would.”

“What I can’t understand is how she could be so devious,” he went on.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Ali said. “It’s tough to deal with people who never tell the truth. I should know,” she added wryly. “I was married to one of them. Besides, it’s clear that Arabella is mentally ill.”

But Ali’s comment did nothing to dissuade Brooks from his barrage of self-recrimination. “I always prided myself in knowing exactly what she was up to,” he said. “But now it turns out I was wrong-completely wrong. The guns in particular, Ms. Reynolds. I have no idea how she gained access to the combination for the safe. I hold myself entirely responsible for that. And as for poor Mr. Ashcroft. I gave Miss Arabella her medication that night before I ever left for Prescott. She should have been asleep until morning.”

“I believe Arabella Ashcroft learned to fake taking her medications a very long time ago,” Ali said. “Long before you came into the picture.”

He nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”

Out of long habit, he smoothed the coat and returned it to the back of a chair while Ali picked up the tray and carried it into the kitchen. There was a dishwasher there, but it seemed to get little use. Brooks relieved her of the tray and then set about washing up the delicate bone china in a sink full of hot, soapy water.

“Where will you go?” Ali asked. “What will you do?”

“For the time being, I’ll probably live in an apartment in Prescott. I’ll need to stay around here long enough to handle the sale of the house. It’s a shame. It was state-of-the-art when Mrs. Ashcroft had it built, but it’ll probably end up being sold as a tear down. The real estate agent advised me to leave it furnished while it’s being shown, but once it’s sold I’ll need to dispose of the contents-the furniture and the artwork, and the vehicles, as well. Once that’s all handled, I’ll stay long enough to see what happens to Miss Arabella. After that, I may do some traveling. I haven’t been back home to England-to Dorset-in decades, not since Mrs. Ashcroft sent me there to school. I’m sure it’s changed quite a lot.”

“What about money?” Ali asked.

“Oh, I’m fine as far as money is concerned,” Brooks said reassuringly. “That won’t be a problem. Before Mrs. Ashcroft died, she set up an annuity for me-a generous annuity. And then there’s my social security. Living here, I’ve had almost no expenses through the years, and I’ve been able to put aside most of what I’ve had coming in. It’s built up into quite a sizable nest egg.”

“And what about this house,” Ali asked. “You’ve lived here a long time. Won’t you mind leaving it?”

Brooks pulled his hands out of the dishwater, dried them on a towel, and looked around the room with its antiquated cabinetry and appliances. “I don’t think so,” he said at last. “I’m getting on in years, and taking care of this house has been a lot of work.”

A man Ali had never seen before came in from the garage. The newcomer came over to the sink, stood beside Brooks, and put a comforting arm around the butler’s shoulder. “Hey, Lee,” he said. “How’s it going?”

“Not too well,” Leland Brooks said, with an audible catch in his throat. “Not well at all.”

Something about the familiarity of the gesture and the way the men stood side by side in front of the sink told Ali more than she would have thought possible. Without another word being exchanged, she understood that they were far more than friends and that they had been together for years.

It was the same way Edie Larson knew things about people. She knew, too, that in his moment of grief, Leland Brooks deserved some privacy.

“I believe I’ll go see what Dave is doing,” Ali said. With that she abandoned the kitchen in favor of the garage, leaving the two men alone in the kitchen, but as she closed the door behind her, it seemed unlikely that either of them would notice.

The sun was high in the sky that morning when Ali awakened to the tantalizing smell of coffee and to the guilty knowledge that when Dave had finally brought her home from Arabella’s house, she had told him nothing about the Crystal video. It wasn’t as if there hadn’t been an opportunity. That would have been when he had walked Ali up to her door, but then other considerations had taken precedence.

“Sorry about Roxie,” Dave said. “I talked to Richey earlier. He told me Roxanne had stopped by to give you the third degree.”

“Crystal has her convinced that you and I have something going.”

“Don’t we?” Dave asked with a grin.

That was when Ali could have told him; should have told him, but she was too tired. “You tell me,” Ali returned.

And that was when, to Ali’s utter astonishment, Dave had leaned down and kissed her squarely on the lips. He kissed her as though he really meant it in a way that said Crystal and Roxie and even Edie Larson were absolutely right in their assumptions.

When Dave finally turned Ali loose, she had staggered into the house. She lay in bed for a while, wondering if the kiss had really happened or if, in a delirium of weariness, she had merely imagined it. Finally she fell asleep and slept without dreaming or moving. She knew about the latter because she had slept on one hand, which was now alive with needles and pins. Lying there waiting for the tingling to subside, she once again wondered about that phantom kiss. Was it real or had she made it up? And if she hadn’t made it up, what did it mean?

Once Ali’s hand was capable of movement, she put on her robe and headed into the living room, expecting to find Chris somewhere in the house. Instead, she was surprised to see an unfamiliar young woman seated on her couch with Sam draped contentedly in her lap.

“You must be Athena,” Ali said.

Athena Carlson was a diminutive blonde with blue eyes and a ready smile. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled back and held in place by a clipped comb. She wore a vivid red-and-white tracksuit and a pair of Velcroed tennis shoes. A metal rod peeked out from under the bottom of the right leg of the tracksuit. The end of a complicated plastic-and-metal device that functioned in place of her right hand and arm rested on the couch beside her. If Sam noticed the difference, it apparently didn’t bother her.

“Yes, I am,” Athena said. “And you must be Chris’s mom.” Athena made as if to rise and started to move the sleeping cat off her lap.

“Don’t get up,” Ali told her. “Stay where you are. Sam looks like she died and went to heaven.”

Athena settled back onto the couch. Sam opened her one good eye briefly, glanced around the room, and then closed it again and resumed her nap. Ali was impressed. Sam was notoriously picky-and spooky-when it came to visitors.

“I hope we didn’t wake you, Ms. Reynolds,” Athena continued nervously. “Edie called. She told Chris that she had set aside some sweet rolls for us and that he’d better come down and get them before she threw them out.”