still standing calmly beside the Rolls and holding the gun at her side as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“There,” she said, casually waving the gun in Ali’s direction. “I’ve said my good-byes. Come on now,” she added. “I’m done here. Get in and let’s go home.”
Ali’s knees were quaking and her hands shook as she resumed her place behind the wheel. She knew something about firearms. It was clear to her that Arabella Ashcroft was one hell of a shot. Ali knew, too, that if Arabella had really intended to kill her there was no question that she would be dead.
“What kind of gun is that?” Ali asked, trying to normalize the tension in the car with conversation.
“A Smith and Wesson Ladysmith,” Arabella said. “It’s a genuine antique. Belonged to my mother. Fires seven rounds.”
“Where did you learn to shoot?” Ali asked.
“I was trained by a former Royal Marine commando,” Arabella answered.
In the darkness, Ali rolled her eyes.
“He tells me I’m a very good shot,” Arabella added.
Arabella Ashcroft may have been a liar, but that last statement was indisputably true. She was an excellent shot. She was also a cold-blooded killer.
As they headed away from the burned-out cabin, Ali tried to come to grips with how to deal with someone who was clearly a pathological liar. The same had been true for Arabella’s mother, Anna Lee. Their checks had been good when they had offered Ali her scholarship, but was anything else she knew about them true?
Arabella claimed to be broke, and the mending on that old cardigan-Brooks’s workmanship most likely-was real enough, but the coat Arabella was wearing right that minute was probably worth several thousand dollars. Arabella had implied that she’d had something to do with several murders. She had coyly refrained from coming right out and admitting to any of them, but the jar had been real enough.
“Where did you keep it?” Ali asked.
“Keep what?”
“The jar. With your brother’s hand. You said you got it from Bill Junior. If you were locked up at the time, surely you weren’t allowed to keep it in your room.”
“You’d be surprised,” Arabella said. “You’ve never been locked up anywhere, have you?”
“No.”
“I had both the jar and the briefcase,” Arabella said. “The briefcase with the jar inside it. Someone I was nice to there took it home and kept it for me, kept it until I was ready to have it again.”
“How long?”
“Eight years. From 1956 until 1964, when they shut down Bancroft House.”
“What’s Bancroft House?” Ali asked. “I thought you were at the Mosberg Institute.”
“Bancroft came later,” Arabella said. “After the Mosberg.”
“And somebody was willing to keep it for you for that long, with no questions asked?”
“That all depends,” Arabella answered coyly.
“On what?”
“On what you have to trade.”
On the drive back to Sedona, Ali kept hoping eventually Arabella would fall asleep, but she didn’t. Ali prayed that somewhere along the way they’d see a patrol car of some kind. That didn’t happen, either. By midnight, as they made their way up the hill to Arabella’s house, there was almost no traffic of any kind. But when they pulled into the yard at Arabella’s house, the garage door was wide open and a stack of suitcases stood barring the spot where Arabella expected Ali to park the Rolls.
“What is all that stuff?” Arabella demanded. “Honk the horn. Get Mr. Brooks out here to move it.”
“Arabella, it’s the middle of the night. People are asleep. I can’t be honking the horn.”
Just then the whole discussion became moot when Leland Brooks, lugging another pair of suitcases, entered the garage through the kitchen door. He set them down with the rest of the luggage then straightened slowly and started toward the Rolls.
Ali didn’t know what to do. Should she warn him away? Let him come ahead on and hope that, between the two of them, they could somehow wrestle the loaded weapon from Arabella’s hand? Before Ali could respond one way or the other, Brooks made straight for the back door and opened it. “Good evening, madam,” he said to Arabella. “I’m glad you’re home.”
He reached in and took the briefcase. Without objection, Arabella allowed herself to be helped from the car. “Get all that junk out of the way so she can pull into the garage,” Arabella ordered. “And what on earth are you doing in that god-awful outfit?”
That was the first Ali actually noticed how Brooks was dressed-in a bright blue sequined cowboy shirt, narrow-legged jeans, and cowboy boots.
“Don’t you like it?” he asked.
“Of course I don’t like it,” Arabella said irritably. “You look like you’re about to go out trick-or-treating. And what is all this mess?”
“It’s my luggage,” Brooks replied. “My ride should be here in a while.”
“Ride?” Arabella repeated. “You’re going someplace? You’re taking a trip?”
“Yes, madam,” Brooks said. “I’m afraid I’m leaving.”
“Leaving! You can’t do that. You can’t be serious.”
“I’m entirely serious,” Brooks returned. “I know I promised your mother that I’d look after you, but I’m afraid I can’t do that anymore. You’re far too dangerous-to yourself and others-including Madam Reynolds here. You are all right, aren’t you Ms. Reynolds?”
His manner was as calm and unruffled as if he were inquiring about whether she wanted one lump or two in her tea.
“Yes,” Ali managed with some difficulty. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” he said. “Very good.” Then he turned back to Arabella. “I have reason to believe you’ve somehow managed to get into the safe and remove the guns. I’m sure that must be how you convinced Madam Reynolds to accompany you on this little jaunt tonight. Is that true?”
Arabella stared at him as if he were speaking some incomprehensible foreign language.
“Well?” he prompted. She said nothing and he held out his hand. “Give it to me,” he said. “Give me the gun.”
And to Ali’s utter astonishment, Arabella complied.
“Where’s the other one?” he asked.
“In the briefcase.”
“Very well, then. Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here. I took the liberty of starting a fire in the living room in hopes you’d come to your senses and come home. We can talk there. You’re welcome, too, Ms. Reynolds, if you wish. You might want to phone your family and let them know you’re safe, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to make a call or two first.”
With Arabella leaning on his arm, Leland led her into the house. With him in his cowboy duds and her in her fur-coated finery, the two of them made an incongruous but somehow dignified pair. Seeing them together reminded Ali of pictures of the queen mum being escorted in some royal processional. They went in through the laundry room and kitchen-through parts of the house Ali had never seen before-where appliances that looked as though they should have been genuine antiques consigned to museums seemed to be still functional. They walked through the chilly dining room with its massive polished wood table and matching sideboard.
As promised, a cheerful fire was burning in the living room. Brooks deftly relieved Arabella of her coat and then deposited her in one of the chairs facing the fire.
“I notice your computer is missing,” he said. “I’m assuming it hasn’t been stolen.”
“It’s in the trunk of the Rolls,” she said. “I was going to get rid of it, but then I forgot.”
“Very well, madam,” Brooks said. “I’ll bring it back inside later. Now would you care for something to
