Hand of Evil

at my leisure.”

“Did you read it?” Arabella asked sharply.

“Yes.”

“I hoped you wouldn’t. I told you not to.”

“I thought I was supposed to read it so I could help you decide about the book you’re writing.”

“I’m not writing a book,” Arabella said at once. “I’ve changed my mind about that, too.”

“Why?” Ali asked. “What changed your mind? What’s going on?”

“I want my diary back. How can that be so difficult to understand?”

“Have the police talked to you about what happened to your nephew?”

“Two very nice detectives from Phoenix came to notify me that Billy was dead,” Arabella said, softening a little. “Yesterday, I think it was, or maybe the day before.”

“And did you tell them what was going on between the two of you?”

“I told them Billy wanted to do a reverse mortgage for me. Once I had time to think it over, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea.”

“Wait a minute,” Ali objected. “You told me the other day that Billy threatened you; that he was going to try to have you declared incompetent and put away somewhere.”

“He wouldn’t have,” Arabella said. “He’d never do such a dreadful thing.”

Of course not, Ali thought. Especially if he’s dead.

“The cops need to know what was going on between the two of you,” Ali said aloud. “And I’m going to tell them.”

Arabella looked at Ali in dismay. “The things I said to you were relayed in the strictest confidence.”

“You may have thought it was in confidence, but I’m not an attorney,” Ali said. “There’s no attorney/client privilege when you talk to me, and no expectation of privacy, either. Concealing information in a homicide investigation is a felony.”

“Surely you don’t think I had something to do with Billy’s death.”

“Did you?” Ali asked.

Arabella stared at her and didn’t answer.

“Did you?” Ali prodded again.

“You wouldn’t really go to the police, would you?” Arabella asked.

“Yes, I’m afraid I would. I’ve just spent two days giving my friend’s teenage daughter hell for not coming forward and giving pertinent information in another set of homicides. It would be hypocritical for me to keep quiet in this one.”

“Even after everything Mother and I did for you?”

“I’m sorry, but yes. Even after all that. Not because I want to; because I have to. And no matter how much it costs, you need to find yourself an attorney.”

Leaving her coffee untouched on the table, Arabella surged to her feet. She stood and straightened her sweater, the same mended cardigan she had worn on the previous occasion. Ali reached out to help her, but Arabella would have none of it.

“Leave me alone,” she said, drawing away as if Ali’s very touch was poisonous. “If you’re determined to go to the authorities, we have nothing further to discuss.”

She walked unassisted as far as the door. At the entryway table, she turned and looked back. “I know something about killing,” she said. “I tried to kill my brother Bill once, you know. He came into my room, grabbed Blueboy out of his cage, and squashed him flat. Squeezed my poor little bird in his fist until he was dead. He told me if I ever told anyone, he’d do the same thing to me-squeeze me until I was dead, and he put his hand around my throat to show me he could do it. So I stole a knife from the kitchen and hid it under my pillow. That night, when he came to my bedroom the way I knew he would, I pulled out the knife and stabbed him. I was just a kid, and I think it surprised the hell out of him. He went to the hospital, but the son of a bitch didn’t die. Damn him anyway, he didn’t die.”

Arabella’s unsolicited confession was as chilling as it was fierce.

“What about Billy?” Ali asked. “What about your nephew?”

“What about him? Believe me, if I had wanted to kill him, I would have.”

But did you? Ali wondered.

Arabella turned and stormed out the door. Ali watched through the sidelights as Leland Brooks hurried forward, offered Arabella his arm, and then carefully led her back to the waiting Rolls. They might have been an old married couple making their way together across treacherous terrain. Once he closed the car door, he turned and looked back toward where Ali was standing. Then, with a shake of his head, he climbed into the driver’s seat.

As they drove out of sight, Ali couldn’t help wondering if Arabella Ashcroft was capable of murder. Certainly she was capable of attempted murder. She had said as much herself. And what about Arabella’s lies? Either she had lied to Ali when she said Billy had threatened her or she had lied to the cops when she said he had not. And since Billy Ashcroft was definitely dead, the cops needed to get to the bottom of the situation one way or the other.

For a long time after Arabella left, Ali struggled with what she should do. Yes, she owed her education to Anna Lee and Arabella Ashcroft. And yes, her whole career had come about as a result of their generosity. But if Arabella had murdered her nephew in cold blood-dragged him behind a car until he was dead-Ali couldn’t just keep quiet. She couldn’t.

She tried calling Dave, but he was probably in court. His phone went straight to voice mail. Instead of leaving a message, Ali went into her bedroom and located everything she’d emptied out of her jacket pocket the night before. There, along with her car keys, she found a collection of business cards that belonged to a series of Phoenix PD detectives. She picked one at random-Detective Mike Ryan. She dialed his number hoping he’d be able to put her in touch with whichever investigators had been assigned to the William Ashcroft homicide.

It’s a homicide investigation, she told herself firmly as Ryan’s extension began to ring. I don’t have a choice.

While Ali waited for someone to call her back, she turned her attention to the blog. The situation at the hospital was an ongoing investigation. That meant there was little she could say, but she felt obliged to say something.

CUTLOOSEBLOG.COM

Friday, January 13, 2006

I know my name is showing up in the news in reference to what happened last night at St. Francis

Hospital down in Phoenix. I know many of you are worried about me. My mailbox is brimming with e-mails asking me if I’m okay and letting me know that the blog stopped opening earlier this morning due to too many hits on the server. So I’m posting this and hoping you’ll be able to read it sometime soon.

I’m fine and I’m very grateful to be alive. My friend’s daughter, who was targeted in the attack, is also safe and back home with her family.

Yes, it’s true. I’m the same Ali Reynolds who was involved in the hostage situation at the hospital, but because of the nature of the ongoing investigation, I’ve been advised to say nothing more on that topic. If you’re connected to one of the media outlets and you’re reading this post, please understand that if you do happen to reach me, all you’ll be given for the trouble is the usual “no comment.”

I know that readers of my blog are accustomed to more information than this, but for right now this will have to do. Once again, let me say thank you for your concern, your prayers, and your e-mails.

More on all of this later. With the way investigations of this magnitude go, however, I expect that means MUCH later.

Babe, posted 1:05

P.M.

Evidently the server was still having difficulties. It took a very long time for Ali’s post to upload. When it finally did, she turned to answering some of her voluminous e-mail. It was relatively mindless work that kept her from watching the telephone and waiting for it to ring. Detective Ryan had told her that someone involved in the Ashcroft investigation would get back to her, but she wondered how long that would take.

One at a time she made her way through the long list of received mail, discarding the spam and answering