“And I told her she didn’t have a choice,” Gary said. “She needed to clean up her act, or else.”
Ali’s heart constricted. In her own way, Crystal had tried to tell someone. She probably hadn’t told anyone the whole story, but she had asked for help, and no one had listened. Her parents hadn’t listened, but Ali had. And now something was going to be done about it.
“I hate to have to tell you this, Mr. and Mrs. Whitman,” Detective Gutierrez said. “We have reason to believe that Mr. Masters is a sexual predator who has had inappropriate sexual contact with your daughter. We need to talk to her about it.”
“Why, that son of a bitch!” Gary Whitman exclaimed, his whole body rigid with absolute outrage. “That low- down son of a bitch! Let me at him. I’ll tear him limb from limb!”
Just then Crystal appeared in the doorway to the living room. She was wearing a robe. A damp towel was wrapped around her head. “Mom? Gary?” she asked uncertainly, looking from one face to another. “What’s going on?”
Roxanne leaped off the couch and hurried to her daughter’s side. “Oh, my poor baby,” she murmured, gathering Crystal into her arms. “Come in here. I think we need to talk.”
CHAPTER 21
On Wednesday of the following week Rudyard Kipling Hogan was laid to rest in the cemetery of his hometown of Kingman, Arizona. Ali, along with everyone else, was surprised when it turned out to be a far larger funeral than anyone-including the mortuary-had expected. A standing-room-only crowd turned out to bury him as if paying their respects to a departed hero. As the local paper had editorialized, regardless of who had actually killed Kip Hogan, he was as much a victim of that long-ago but not forgotten fire as the men who had perished in the actual inferno. It had simply taken a lot longer for him to die.
Elizabeth Barrett Hogan came home for her son’s funeral, accompanied throughout the services by both Sandy Mitchell and Jane Braeton. Ali heard several people speculating about who was who and most especially wondering about the two very protective women who never left Elizabeth’s side, but since Elizabeth wasn’t telling, neither was Ali.
She was standing nearby when, at the end of the graveside ceremony, Ali’s father went over to Elizabeth’s wheelchair and handed her an envelope. Ali knew what it was. Bob had found it in the LazyDaze when he had cleaned it out. It was a letter Kip had written to his mother only a few months before his death, one that bore the U.S. Postal Service’s inarguable determination-
“Kip tried to write to you,” Bob Larson said. “But it was too late. The forwarding address had run out by then, and it came back.”
Elizabeth held the envelope up to the sunlight and peered at it from several different angles. Then she stowed it, unopened, in the purse that rested on her lap. “Thank you for this,” she said, smiling up at him. “If Kip wrote it, it’s not too late. And thank you for being his friend.”
Bob patted her shoulder wordlessly and then hurried away, but not fast enough that his wife and daughter failed to see what was going on. Edie Larson hurried to her grieving husband’s side. “Come on, Bobby,” she said. “Let’s get out of here before you make a complete fool of yourself.”
A week after Arabella Ashcroft’s arraignment, Ali received a surprise call from the woman’s attorney, Morgan Hatfield. Ali knew from news reports that Arabella had pled innocent to one charge of vehicular manslaughter in the death of Billy Ashcroft. She knew, too, from Dave that additional charges were pending in other jurisdictions, including involvement in the deaths of the nurse and patient who had perished in the fire at the Mosberg Institute and the woman who had run an institution called the Bancroft House near Carefree. In the mid-sixties the director had gone for a horseback ride, had been reported missing, and had been found dead months later. At the time, no one had connected her death to Arabella Ashcroft’s being incarcerated there. Now they had.
It occurred to Ali that this was a time when pleading insanity might actually be the right thing to do, but she didn’t mention that to Mr. Hatfield.
“Arabella would really like to see you,” Morgan said. “She’s in the new high-security jail on South Fourth in Phoenix.”
Arabella had lied to Ali on so many occasions about so many things, that Ali wasn’t eager to go another round. “Why?” Ali asked. “What does she want?”
“I’m not sure, but you know Arabella. She was quite adamant.”
Two days later, still filled with misgivings, Ali drove herself to Phoenix. Arabella came into the visitors’ room wearing shackles and a bright orange jail jumpsuit.
“The food here is dreadful,” Arabella said, as soon as she sat down opposite Ali behind a Plexiglas window. “Have you heard of nutrition loaf? It’s where they mix all the food together in a terrible conglomeration, bake it, and serve it as a meal.”
As jail fare went, nutrition loaf was fully balanced and amazingly cheap. “I’ve heard of it,” Ali said.
“Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have one of Mr. Brooks’s dinners about now,” Arabella said wistfully. “He did a particularly wonderful job with lamb chops. Have you heard from him, by the way?”
“No,” Ali said. “I haven’t.”
“I haven’t either, not directly,” Arabella said. “He must be terribly angry with me. I’m afraid I’ve been a naughty, naughty girl.”
“I’ve also heard rumors that there’s only one person interested in buying my house,” Arabella continued. “He’s a developer, of course. He’s planning on tearing it down. The real estate agent warned me that, if he does make an offer, it’ll probably be for only a fraction of what the place is worth-pennies on the dollar.”
“So?”
“I’d like you to buy it,” Arabella said. “For this.”
Using a pencil, she jotted a sum down on a three-by-five card and shoved it through the opening under the window that separated them.
Ali looked at the amount and put the paper down. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. “That’s pennies on the dollar, too.”
“Yes, it is,” Arabella said. “But you wouldn’t tear it down. And anything that’s left after I pay off Mr. Hatfield will go to a good cause-to the scholarship trust fund-which I’m hoping you’ll administer, by the way. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Ali shook her head. The amount was something she could well afford, but she didn’t think she’d have the energy to tackle the kind of wholesale remodeling that would be necessary.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s far more house than I need.”
“Please,” Arabella said quietly. “I’d really like for you to have it. And I know Mother would, too.”
Ali stood up. “I’ll think about it,” she said. “But I’m not making any promises.”
“Wait,” Arabella said. “Don’t go yet, please. I need to ask you. How’s your friend-the little girl who ran away?”
“The guy who molested her is in jail,” Ali said. “And she wasn’t his only victim.”
“So, did I help?” Arabella asked.
“What do you mean, did you help?”
“Did you tell her about me? Did you use me as an example so she’d go to the police?”
Ali looked at Arabella-a pathetic, damaged, delusional old woman-and she could not deny her that one bit of satisfaction.
“Yes,” Ali lied. “Yes, I did.”
On the drive back to Sedona, Ali felt little satisfaction for having lied and allowed Arabella that one small triumph. Driving through town, Ali saw her mother’s Alero parked outside the Sugarloaf. The Bronco wasn’t there. Wanting some private time with Edie, Ali stopped and knocked.
“Are you all right?” her mother asked as soon as she saw her face.
“I saw Arabella Ashcroft today,” Ali said.
