She hadn’t told Elizabeth of her scheme because she knew that, at the very least, her sister would have insisted on accompanying her. But if the strategy failed Valerie might decide to turn her rage on Elizabeth. That would only make the situation worse. After all, Elizabeth had to live in this town.
She stopped on the tiled entranceway, stomach clenched as though anticipating a blow, and rang the doorbell.
No footsteps sounded in the entry hall on the other side of the door.
She leaned on the bell a second time.
Still no answer.
She stepped back, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed. Unfortunately, postponing the confrontation with Valerie Shipley was not going to improve matters. It only delayed the inevitable.
She left the entranceway, walked to where the gold Jaguar was parked and looked through the windows. She had no idea what she expected to see.
A crumpled white terrycloth turban lay on the floor on the passenger side. It looked as if someone had discarded it hurriedly, perhaps while fleeing the scene of an attempted murder.
Clare’s stomach fluttered unpleasantly. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, she thought. She had known, deep down, that the intruder in the Tropical Experience Chamber was Valerie. Nevertheless, the little piece of confirming evidence was disturbing.
Morbid curiosity compelled her to walk across the driveway to the three-car garage.
One of the garage doors was open, revealing an empty space that was no doubt meant for the Jaguar.
She stepped into the shadowy gloom, took off her sunglasses and surveyed the interior.
The second space inside the garage was also empty. But parked in the third space at the far end was a large, silver-gray SUV. It was identical to the one that had nearly run her down in the mall garage.
A shivery sensation swept through her. She had to remind herself to breathe.
She left the garage, wondering what to do next. Two of the Shipleys’ three vehicles were here. Owen was probably gone, but the odds were that Valerie was inside the house, not answering the door.
What would an alcoholic most likely do after a failed attempt at murder?
Go home and have a stiff drink or two or six, Clare decided. Actually, it seemed like a reasonable thing for anyone to do under such circumstances.
She stopped and looked toward the far end of the breezeway that separated the house from the garage. She could see a wrought-iron gate set in the high stone wall that enclosed the pool terrace and garden behind the house.
Just beyond the terrace and gardens she could see the emerald green expanse of one of the fairways of the Stone Canyon Golf Course. There was only one cart in sight. It was some distance away on another fairway. Arizona golfers were a hardy lot but the relentless afternoon sun had proved too much for most of them today.
The wrought-iron gate was no doubt intended for the use of the gardeners and pool service people, Clare thought. It was very likely alarmed.
But maybe not at this time of day, especially if someone is home.
She contemplated her options. Forcing her way into the house was not only a good way to get arrested, it could also get her shot, especially here in Arizona, where owning a gun was a common lifestyle choice.
She walked to the gate, stopped and looked through the decorative curlicues and spikes. From where she stood she could see the gracefully curved pool.
There was someone in the bright, flashing water.
Valerie Shipley was not swimming. In fact, she was not moving at all. She was not wearing a bathing suit, either. She was fully clothed, in a pair of white pants and a sleeveless top.
She was floating facedown.
The gate was unlocked. Clare opened it reluctantly. She did not want to check the body. She would rather have done anything else. But you were supposed to make certain in situations like this and there was no one else around to do what had to be done.
She dropped her purse and phone beside the pool and waded into the water. She knew as soon as she touched the body that Valerie was dead but she nevertheless checked carefully for a pulse. There was none.
That was enough, she told herself. She did not owe this woman anything more.
She climbed back up the pool steps. Dripping wet, she opened the door of the small cabana. There was a stack of clean towels on a rack. She helped herself to one. When her hands were dry, she left the cabana and made the 911 call.
“There’s an aid car on the way,” the operator assured her. There was a distinct pause. “Did you say your name is Clare Lancaster, ma’am?”
“Yes.”
Clare Lancaster, Stone Canyon’s all-purpose suspect.
She ended the call, finished drying herself off as well as she could and then went inside the house to unlock the door for the medics.
There was a cell phone on the white stone coffee table next to a half-empty pitcher of martinis.
It would be a few minutes before the aid car arrived, Clare thought. She grabbed a couple paper napkins off the liquor cabinet and used them to pick up the phone.
It probably wasn’t legal to take a quick look at the victim’s phone log but she promised herself she would be very careful not to taint any evidence.
After a moment she realized she needed a pen and paper to jot down the numbers. She went back outside to get the items from her purse.
She was disappointed to discover that there were no calls, either incoming or outgoing, logged for that day. So much for being a psychic detective, she thought.
She could hear sirens in the distance. She still had a couple minutes. Unable to think of anything else to do, she jotted down numbers that Valerie had stored in the cell’s phone book.
Chapter Seventeen
“Don’t leave the motel,” Jake ordered, speaking into his cell phone. “It will take me about half an hour to get there. Stay right where you are.”
“I’m sorry,” Clare said, sounding unutterably weary. “But I’m going to have to cancel our arrangement for this evening. I don’t think I’d make very good company for dinner.”
Jake was on his feet, heading toward the door of his office.
“Forget it,” he said. “A dinner date strikes me as the least of your concerns at the moment.”
There was a short pause on the other end.
“Things aren’t that bad,” Clare said, rallying somewhat. “They didn’t arrest me or anything. Actually, there are two schools of thought at the moment. One holds that Valerie got drunk, fell into the pool and drowned. The other theory is that she committed suicide. They’re going to do an autopsy to test for drugs.”
“I’m on my way.”
“It’s okay, Jake, really. Elizabeth is here with me.”