the bed. So what’s next on your agenda?”
“Next scheduled stop is Chip Ralston’s mother’s place to talk to his mother and sister. I’m also hoping I’ll be able to chat up a couple of their neighbors.”
“Don’t rush on my account,” B. said. “I’ll be here when you get here.”
Ignoring the GPS’s insistent directions that she retrace her path north on the 51, Ali made her way over to Twenty-fourth and up to Lincoln. Eventually, she found her way to Upper Glen Road, where she was disappointed to find that the Ralstons’ place wasn’t inside a gated community. One of those might have given her some security tapes to review or some rent-a-cops to question about vehicles coming and going on the night in question. When she finally located the right address, it was after dark. It was also clear there wouldn’t be any neighbors to chat up. The Ralstons’ house was at the far end of the road, with a yard that backed up to a looming wall of rocky desert cliffs.
The house seemed noticeably smaller than some of the sprawling mansions Ali had passed along the way, and its small fifties-era windows looked almost old-fashioned compared to some of the sharply angled, window- covered places she had seen on the way in. A series of lights showed off the towering palm trees and lush landscaping that made it clear the house had been there for decades longer than some of its more architecturally daring and starkly modern fellows.
As Ali drove up the front drive, she noticed a second, smaller driveway veering off to the right. Despite the lights gleaming in the windows, when Ali rang the bell, no one answered. Without leaving a note, she returned to her vehicle and headed down the driveway, intent on going straight to the hotel. When she reached the turnoff halfway down the drive, she changed her mind and turned up the side path. Driving past a four-car garage built at one end of the house, Ali discovered the casita tucked away at the far end of the driveway that she was sure was Chip’s apartment.
Ali had to admit that she didn’t have much room to talk on that score. After all, what had she done after the collapse of her marriage to Paul Grayson? She had slunk home to Sedona and taken up residence in the double-wide she had inherited from Aunt Evie.
There were no lights on in the casita. Even so, Ali got out and tried knocking. As expected, no one answered. Ali returned to the Cayenne, pulled a U-turn at the back of the house, and started back toward the driveway. Before she got there, she found her path blocked by a pair of blazing headlights. A woman was standing directly in front of the vehicle. Her feet were spread apart in a shooting stance, while she used both hands to keep a weapon of some kind aimed on Ali. Slamming on the brakes, Ali stopped the Cayenne and buzzed down the window.
“Out of the vehicle,” the woman ordered. “On your knees. Hands behind your head.”
“I can explain,” Ali said as she hurried to comply. Scrambling out of the Cayenne, she landed on her knees on the pavement while the open-door alarm chimed away behind her.
With the gun still trained on Ali, the woman spoke over her shoulder to her passenger. “Did you get through to 911, Mama?”
“Please,” Ali said. “I can explain. Just put the gun down before someone gets hurt. My name is Ali Reynolds. I’m a freelancer working on an article about Gemma Ralston’s murder. I came here hoping to speak to Chip Ralston’s mother and sister-Doris Ralston and Molly Handraker.”
As if on cue, the second woman-clearly the elderly mother in question-stepped out of the vehicle, an older- model Jaguar. For several long seconds, Doris Ralston stood swaying unsteadily beside the open passenger door while she used both hands in a vain attempt to operate a cell phone. “Where are my reading glasses?” she grumbled. “Without them, I can’t make this thing work. The numbers are too small.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Mama,” Molly said. “Can’t you do anything? Give me the phone and get back in the car.” She lowered the weapon long enough to collect the phone. When the gun was no longer pointed in her direction, Ali, who wasn’t wearing body armor, allowed herself a small sigh of relief.
“What are you doing prowling around in our backyard when nobody’s home?”
“Please,” Ali said. “You don’t need to call the cops. If you’re Molly Handraker, I just need to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“Gemma Ralston’s murder.”
“Who are you again, and who are you working for?”
Even though the younger woman had yet to dial a number or press send, she still held the phone in one hand and the weapon in the other. Loose gravel from the driveway was biting into Ali’s kneecaps. She needed to bring the confrontation to some kind of peaceful ending.
“My name is Alison Reynolds. As I said, I’m a freelancer. I’ve spoken to some of the investigators working the Gemma Ralston homicide. Some of them seem to be convinced that Lynn Martinson acted alone. Others seem to think your brother and she were in on it together. I wanted to get your take on it.”
“You still haven’t explained what you were doing prowling behind our house while we were out having dinner.”
As she spoke, Molly walked over to the open driver’s door of Ali’s Cayenne and peered inside. Ali suspected she was checking to see if the car was loaded with stolen goods. Meanwhile, the open-door alarm continued to ding away, filling the quiet night with its annoyingly tuneless racket.
“I rang the bell at the front door,” Ali said. “When no one answered, I started to leave. On the way down the driveway, I decided to see if anyone was home at Chip’s place.”
“Chip doesn’t live here anymore,” Doris said, unexpectedly inserting herself into the conversation. “Not since he and Gemma got married.”
“Mother!” Molly said warningly. “Stay out of this. Let me handle it. He does too live here. Remember?”
Ali didn’t know why, but for some reason, the older woman’s querulous comment seemed to have tipped the scales in Ali’s favor. The young woman was wearing a loose-fitting denim jacket. The gun disappeared into one of the jacket pockets while the phone slipped into another.
“This isn’t very convenient,” the younger woman said, “but it’s too cold to be standing around out here talking. Mother will catch her death. I need to get her inside. Come on.”
With that, she walked over to Ali, held out one hand, and helped her to her feet. Close up, Ali noticed that the clear crisp air was alive with the sharp bite of booze. Molly had evidently enjoyed several cocktails along with dinner. That realization sent an additional surge of relief coursing through Ali’s body. There was little doubt that she had just dodged a very real bullet. An angry woman with a handgun was dangerous enough. An angry drunk of either sex with a handgun was even more so.
“Do you have any ID?”
Ali fumbled in her own pocket, found a business card, and passed it over. Molly held it up to the headlights and examined it. “Something with a photo, maybe?”
“In my purse in the car,” Ali said.
“Get it,” Molly ordered. “I’m not letting you into our house until I know you are who you say you are.”
Ali stumbled back to the car and grabbed her purse. In the process, she managed to pull the key from the ignition and shut off the door alarm. By the time she had her wallet open to her driver’s license, Molly had stowed her mother back in the Jaguar’s passenger seat. Molly examined the ID and then handed it back.
“As you can well imagine, it’s been a tough day around here. You’ll need to follow us back up to the front door. I take Mother in and out of the house that way. There are only a few steps from the garage up to the laundry room, but these days, even those are more than she can manage.”
19
Molly backed the Jaguar onto the main driveway and then drove up to the front entrance while Ali followed in the Cayenne. Molly parked at the door before getting out of the vehicle and walking around it to assist her mother. Doris Ralston got out of the car, holding on to her daughter’s arm with one hand while gripping a cane with the
