mansion she had ever entered.
The foyer floor was stained parquet. The walls were black slate. A potted rhododendron, ten feet tall, its twelve-inch leaves an impossibly deep green, loomed on one side of the doorway, opposite a pair of oak sliding doors that must open on a coat closet.
Where the left wall ended, there was a rack of tubular shelves displaying vases of crystal and earthenware, each piece individually lighted by small hidden bulbs, the total effect as artful as a museum exhibit.
Don’t be intimidated, she told herself. They’re rich and you’re poor, but that doesn’t make them better than you.
Even so, she caught herself glancing down as the floor tiles ended and deep pile carpet began, guiltily afraid she was tracking dirt into the house.
The foyer opened onto an elegant living room, preposterously large. Any of its corners could have contained the entire studio apartment she was renting for four hundred dollars a month.
In the adjacent dining area three people sat at a long table under a brilliant chandelier. There was something peculiar in the way they were seated. An image jumped into her mind: posed mannequins on display.
Now where had that come from
She and Wald accompanied Charles Kent to the table. Charles made introductions.
“My wife, Barbara … our dinner guests, Judy and Philip Danforth.”
Smiles and nods from around the table. Philip picked up a demitasse spoon and stirred a cup of espresso, the spoon clinking musically against the porcelain.
Trish focused on Barbara, detecting no hint of inebriation or even embarrassment. She sat stiffly in her chair, hands folded near her plate. The hands could have been modeling for a still life, so motionless were they, so attractively toned and textured in the warm overhead light.
Barbara Kent was perhaps forty, slightly younger than her husband. Superimposed on her face was Trish’s memory of young Barbara Ashcroft of the society pages twenty years ago, heroine of debutante balls.
Though older now, she was no less striking. The familiar arched eyebrows and high cheekbones were unchanged, and the threads of gray in her elegantly coiffed hair only reinforced her mysterious allure.
“There are five place settings,” Wald said.
Trish, preoccupied with her study of Barbara, hadn’t noticed that detail. A rookie error: she should have been looking at hands and laps, not faces.
“Yes.” It was Barbara who answered, her speech refined but free of artificiality. “Our daughter, Ally. She went to bed early. Upset stomach.” Thin fluttery smile. “I guess her mother’s cooking was too much for her.”
“You saw the prowler, ma’am” Wald, Trish observed, was casually scoping out the room as he spoke.
“Yes, well, I really must apologize to you. Officer Wald. And to you. Officer Robinson.” She’d read their nameplates-sharp. “I’m afraid that with all the excitement of the night’s festivities, I got a trifle overwrought.”
Overwrought. An ice sculpture could not have been more coolly self-possessed.
“You mean,” Wald said mildly, “you hallucinated a prowler in the backyard”
Barbara’s silvery laughter struck a jarring false note. “Hallucinated-next you’ll want to test me for LSD, I suppose. It wasn’t any hallucination, just the shadow of a tree. Charles pointed it out to me, and I do feel like such a fool.”
Trish was looking at the empty place setting, the one used by the Kents’ daughter. A slice of dessert cake, half-eaten.
She scanned the other plates, saw the same dessert on each. Barbara’s was barely touched. The remaining three had been half-finished-like Ally’s.
The girl must have left the table only a couple of minutes earlier. Just when Wald buzzed the intercom.
“Oh, you shouldn’t blame yourself,” Judy was telling Barbara with a brittle smile. “Anybody can make a mistake.”
“I called the police once.” Philip went on stirring his espresso, the spoon jerking in his hand. “Reported a suspicious person in the bushes near our property.”
“Turned out to be our next-door neighbor,” Judy said. “His dachshund had gone into the shrubbery in pursuit of a rabbit, and he was coaxing her out.”
“Damn dog wouldn’t budge, and finally one of the police officers had to crawl in and get her.” Philip laughed, but his face was all wrong, a caricature of mirth.
“Well,” Barbara said, “it’s good to know I’m not the only one who’s paranoid.”
Judy and Philip and Charles smiled at this, smiled too much. It was as if they were all playing a game, but Trish didn’t know the rules.
Then Philip’s smile faded. “The way things are, these days”-he looked hard at Wald-“it’s difficult not to be paranoid.”
Barbara cut in hastily, as if unnerved by the remark. “Oh, I don’t know. This is a safe area. Nothing ever happens here.”
“It’s a very safe area,” Charles agreed, nodding vigorously. “Lowest crime rates of any California county this far south.”
“Is that true” Judy asked Wald.
“I believe Ventura County may be slightly lower overall, ma’am.” Wald clearly was perturbed, uncertain how to react to the strange show these people were putting on. “Violent crime rates are about the same. Property crime-“
“Well, violent crime is what we’re really concerned about,” Philip said with another focused stare.
“Isn’t everybody” Barbara laughed gaily, but there was no gaiety in her eyes or in the hectic flush of her cheeks. “Fortunately, we needn’t worry about it tonight. The only crime here is the crime of wasting these two officers’ valuable time. Is that a felony. Officer Wald Or only a misdemeanor”
Wald shot Trish another glance. He sensed it too-the giddy unreality of the scene. The dialogue was almost right, but the performances were badly off center.
Trish thought of a college word: subtext. There was a subtext here, but she was missing it.
“If you don’t mind,” Wald said to the Kents, “maybe we’d better look around out back, just to be sure.”
Barbara wore her frozen smile like a mask. “It’s quite unnecessary.”
Trish’s gaze drifted back to Ally’s place at the table. Something small and cylindrical and metallic lay under the lip of her plate, nearly hidden from view.
The empty casing of a 9mm round.
Her heart stuttered. The breath went out of her, and her fingers tingled, suddenly cold.
A gun had been fired in this room. Fired into the ceiling-wood splinters littered the floral centerpiece.
And Ally didn’t have an upset stomach. She was a hostage. She was the off-stage presence who’d prompted these bad actors to deliver their unconvincing lines.
Abruptly Trish focused on the tapping of Philip’s spoon, a strangely rhythmic sound.
Three soft clinks. Pause. Again. Pause. Again.
SOS.
He had been signaling the whole time. Brave of him … or foolish.
With effort she held her face expressionless. As surreptitiously as possible, she brushed Wald’s elbow.
Her partner’s eyes cut sideways, and she nodded almost imperceptibly toward the table.
He dropped his gaze. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
It was a small reaction, but enough. Instantly everyone at the table was looking at the cartridge case on the white damask tablecloth.
Philip stopped tapping. Conversation ceased. There was no sound but the soft intermittent crackle of Trish’s portable radio, scanning between the two frequencies used by the dispatchers, and somewhere a whisper of wind chimes.
She met Philip’s eyes and slowly inclined her head.
The silence was stretching taut. Wald covered it with a safely meaningless remark. “You say, Mrs. Kent, that it was the shadow of a tree”
Barbara swallowed. “Yes. That’s right.”
“You’re sure of that”
“Quite sure. Charles showed me. Didn’t you, Charles”
