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Well, screw that. The absolute last thing she wanted to do was sit and wait . . . and wait . . . and wait. “I’ll check with the Bancrofts again,” she offered up. She knew there could possibly be some objection to having her interview her sister’s in-laws, but it would just be a follow-up call and in many ways she was the natural person for the job. Kristina would just love being requestioned, but too damn bad.
“Okay.” O’Halloran seemed relieved that that was all she’d asked for.
Now Savannah narrowed her eyes through the gloom outside and tamped down her annoyance. She’d enjoyed working at the sheriff’s department until her pregnancy became visible and everyone started treating her like an outsider or, worse yet, like she should be handled with kid gloves. She liked the people she worked with as a rule. But this was no fun.
It’s just temporary. Don’t let it get to you, she reminded herself sternly.
Shaking her head, she thought back to the case. If Hillary Enders’s boyfriend had killed Marcus in a jealous rage, the blood money message sure seemed like an elaborate deflection. Also, it was kind of cold, and if it wasn’t premeditated, it was certainly opportunistic. Who was this guy?
And why take out the wife? she asked herself, something that had bothered her in the back of her mind. Chandra Donatella wasn’t to blame for the affair; she was a victim of it, for crying out loud. Unless she was somehow involved? Or maybe she was just in the way, though killing her, too, didn’t really seem like the actions of a spurned lover. Those kinds of murders were born out of passion. But this was cold. Ice cold.
If
Savannah were asked to place a bet, she’d make it against the motive being jealousy. It just didn’t wash. But they didn’t have much else to go on, so she supposed at least it was a direction to move in.
She checked the clock on the dash: 7:15 p.m. She was a little bit late and wondered if Catherine was likely to rap her knuckles. Ha! Then her thoughts turned to her sister. Kristina and Hale’s house was in Deception Bay, not all that far from the Siren Song lodge. Maybe she should try to stop by first and find out what was wrong, but then she would really be late for her meeting with Catherine.
And don’t you want the time to ask Hale and Kristina about the Bancroft-Donatella connection again? Whether they like it or not, they’re connected to Bankruptcy Bluff.
Savannah made a face. Nope. There was no time. She would have to see them after her visit with Catherine.
Keeping her Escape aimed toward the access road that turned off Highway 101 and led to the long Siren Song drive, Savannah stared through the rhythmically slapping window wipers to the darkness beyond. By the time she had angled the Ford onto the rutted lane that led to the lodge, the bumpy drive was filled with overflowing mud puddles and it was almost seven thirty. She parked in front of the wrought-iron gate, letting her headlights wash the enormous shingled building. A few minutes later she cut the engine.
She didn’t have to wait long. Catherine herself appeared in a dark, hooded cloak, walking carefully toward the gate that secured the property, carrying a flashlight and a sturdy black umbrella, apparently in case the hood failed. She unlocked the gate as Savannah climbed from her car. “Park over there,” Catherine ordered, motioning to a wet grassy section, so Savannah got back behind the wheel, nosed the SUV around, and parked where Catherine had indicated. She gingerly skirted the puddles; and once inside the gate, which Catherine pulled shut with a high, keening wail of protest from its rusted hinges, she waited while Catherine relocked it; and they walked together beneath her umbrella to the front door.
Inside the lodge, Savannah let her eyes sweep over the heavy, overstuffed furniture and the Tiffany lamps with their soft light. To her surprise, there was an old, bubble-eyed console television in one corner of the room. Old technology at best, but still unexpected, given Catherine’s obsession with keeping the current world outside of her gates.
Inside the large stone fireplace the fire had burned down to glowing embers, the red logs about to break apart. Heavy shades were drawn across the windows, and two young women were in the room, one standing by the hearth and staring at Savannah through sharp eyes, her blond hair several shades darker than that of the one in the wheelchair, whose hands were folded in her lap, her expression eager and expectant.
“Ravinia, Lillibeth.” Catherine waved them away.
“Who are you?” the standing girl asked Savannah.
“I told you both to wait in your rooms,” Catherine said crisply. “Lillibeth?”
Sighing, the girl in the wheelchair turned her chair around and headed toward a back door.
The dark blond girl stood her ground and repeated, “Who are you?”
“I’m Detective—”
“Ravinia.” Catherine’s tone was fierce.
“You never have people here this late,” she retorted, flipping her long hair over her shoulder with one hand in a gesture of disdain. “Tell me why. I have a right to know. We all have a right to know.”
“I’ll tell you about this later. For now, I need to speak to Detective Dunbar alone.”
There was a moment when Savannah thought Ravinia was going to challenge Catherine some more. Her lips tightened rebelliously. Seeing it, Catherine added, “Isadora, Cassandra, and Ophelia are upstairs, and Lillibeth’s gone to her room. Go on now.”
Ravinia’s eyes, a dark blue, flashed fire, but she turned and headed to the stairs. She hesitated on the bottom step, her hand on the heavy oak newel post, and said through tight teeth, “I’m not like them.” Then she gathered her long skirts and bolted up the stairway to a second-floor gallery. From where she stood, Savannah could see Ravinia run along the hallway, until she finally turned a corner and disappeared.
Catherine sighed. “Ravinia’s the youngest.”
“The youngest of how many?” Savannah asked.
Catherine acted like she didn’t hear her as she said, “Let’s go to the kitchen.”
Savannah followed after her to the east side of the lodge and a large room with an impressive oak plank trestle table big enough to seat twelve. Catherine indicated for her to take a chair at the table, and when Savannah did, she sat down across from her. The scents of onion, tomato, and beef broth still lingered, and she could see a large pot of something cooling on the stove. Beef stew was her guess.
