Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) (24 page)

     
The house had three stories, a yellow-and-bluetinted Spanish hacienda; judging from its frontage, it looked as though it might cover five thousand square feet. A loggia ran the length of the second story, and palm trees brushed their sharp leaves against wide sandstone balconies. High windows on the top floor made Sylvia think of a stronghold. At the hacienda's eastern corner, a Spanish-style bell tower rose above eucalyptus and palm trees. Beyond the edge of the tower, green-and-white canvas awnings delineated private tennis courts. Although some of the fog had burned off, there was still enough mist to shroud the scene.

     
It was hard to place Dupont White in these surroundings. Montecito was the land of the privileged, those whose crimes tended to be calculated, sterile, bought and paid for—not the messy hands-on rage necessary to castrate someone and then burn him alive.

     
She climbed stone stairs to the red stuccoed front entrance and rapped on the massive doors. After a few seconds they opened a crack. Enough to give her a view of a narrow strip of the gleaming tile floor. Enough to see a female face.

     
The woman smiled expectantly, her face devoid of suspicion or challenge. In fact, she looked delighted to see Sylvia. "You've come after all." Her voice was low and musical. She let the doors swing wide.

     
At a loss, Sylvia murmured a response. "Yes, I'm here." She guessed the woman was between forty and fifty years old; her body was small under blue overalls and a red sweater, her hair was tucked into a green turban. She was clutching an earth-dampened trowel in her gloved left hand.

     
"I'm Jilly."

     
Sylvia heard the anxious edge in the woman's voice, took in her vacant, glassy brown eyes, her placid face, and guessed that Jilly was suffering from depression, maybe some form of dementia. Psychological or organic? The result of Alzheimer's or Parkinson's or pathology?

     
She smiled and said, "I'm very pleased to meet you. My name is Sylvia."

     
Jilly cocked her head. "I'm just not myself anymore."

     
Sylvia nodded. Jilly repeated this bit of information like a parrot, and she had to compete with other voices. They were faint, muffled, emanating from a distant room, but Sylvia thought she could distinguish the rumbling bass of a male from the slightly higher contralto of a female.

     
Sylvia entered a high-ceilinged anteroom. Potted ginger plants with giant orange blooms graced each end of a tapestry-covered settee. The tiled floor was turquoise blue and polished so it gleamed.

     
Jilly's eyes widened with curiosity. "Are you a friend of Roxanne's? She's my sister."

     
"No, but I've come to speak with her about her son, Dupont White."

     
"Dupont died, and Roxanne's with her friend." With measured gestures, Jilly placed her trowel on the settee, clapped together gloved hands, and shook loose residual garden soil onto the tile. She said, "I'll be right back, okay?" She turned and passed out of Sylvia's sight beyond the largest of three Moorish arches, roughly thirty feet away. The smack of her rubber soles on tile echoed and then faded away.

     
To enter the vast living room, Sylvia had to pass through a portal created by a pair of giant elephant tusks. Each of the ivory horns had been planted in a heavy brass base that in turn was bolted to the floor. Between the tusks, a zebra skin had been laid down like a cape. Sylvia tiptoed across the striped animal hide.

     
Below vaulted ceilings, the trophy heads of wildebeest, a pair of African lions, and a Cape buffalo were suspended on white walls. Sylvia walked over to the sadly majestic lion heads and stared at the huge oil painting displayed between them. It was a full-length portrait of a regal, blue-eyed blond woman dressed in a simple formal gown. Her golden hair fell softly to her shoulders in a flattering wave. Her oval face was delicately featured. But it was her eyes that caught and held the viewer's attention; they were large and soft and full of promises.

     
Sylvia stepped close and saw a name etched on a small plaque:
ROXANNE GLADSTONE WHITE.

     
If this portrait was accurate, Dupont's mother was a very beautiful woman.

     
Sylvia continued across the room past a large powder-blue Chinese vase that looked like a museum piece. Here, the rugs were Persian and the chairs were French Empire.

     
A door at the far end of the living room banged loudly.

     
Sylvia followed the sound and came to a long hall. She stopped, ready to turn back, until she heard a voice rise shrilly: "You think I'm stupid?"

     
A deeper voice murmured in a placating tone.

     
There were footsteps and then a door shut—slammed this time—somewhere down the hall.

     
Sylvia stood in the silence. She stifled a cry when she felt a tug on her sleeve. When she turned, Jilly placed a small snapshot in her palm. In faded color, three children posed proudly for the camera. They were all dressed in costumes; they all wore masks.

     
On the back of the photograph someone had printed
HALLOWEEN
, 1978.

     
Sylvia pointed to a boy of eight or nine who stood at attention in a Batman cloak and mask. She asked, "Is that Dupont?"

     
Jilly's brown pupils sharpened for an instant, and then they went soft again. She clasped her hands in front of her waist. "That's right. He was proud of that costume."

     
Jilly aimed her little finger at the tallest boy: a cowboy in plastic chaps and a white hat. "And that's Cole. This was taken at the ranch."

     
"Cole Lynch?" The Counselor.

     
"That's right. Fuller's little boy."

     
Sylvia knew that Fuller Lynch had been caretaker of Devil's Den Ranch for the last three decades. Apparently he still supervised the property. She gazed again at the photograph, noticing the stark California high-desert terrain in the background behind the children.

     
"And who's this?" Sylvia indicated the smallest child—the Green Hornet—hemmed in by the larger boys.

     
Jilly took the picture back and slid it into her coverall pocket. Sylvia was startled by the woman's expressive transformation. Her eyes filled with tears, her mouth quivered.

     
"They were so close," Jilly whispered. "But my little girl's gone away." She wiped her hands on the pocket that contained the photograph; the gesture seemed to finish something. Jilly shook her head stubbornly and walked toward the windows.

     
So the little girl was Dupont White's cousin
.

     
Sylvia joined Jilly at the windows that overlooked the driveway. The fog had burned off completely, and the acres spread out, hill after rolling hill, until they reached the sharper peaks of the Santa Ynez Mountains. Closer to the house, the tennis courts and the turquoise swimming pool beyond were clearly visible. Sylvia could see her rented Taurus parked next to the Lamborghini.

     
"There's Roxanne." Jilly pointed outside.

     
Sylvia saw two figures appear around the corner of the house. Roxanne White was following a man. Even from this height, Sylvia could see that Dupont's mother was plump, a coiffed blonde, very well dressed—and not at all like the portrait in the living room.

     
The man was tall, ruddy, and gray-blond. He wore a black leather jacket and Levi's. His stride was insolent.

     
"That's Roxanne's friend," Jilly said. "I don't like him." She unlocked the window and pushed it open.

     
Sylvia saw Roxanne White reach out to touch the man's arm, but he pivoted on his heel, grabbed her by both shoulders, and shook her fiercely.

     
Jilly cried out, and both her sister and the man looked up. Sylvia stepped away from the window, but not in time.

     
"Jilly!" Roxanne White's voice rang out. "Who's that with you?"

     
Jilly said, "Oh, oh."

     
Sylvia walked quickly from the room and retraced her steps to the front door—she had expected a confrontation with Roxanne White earlier. She thought it best to face Dupont's mother without delay.

     
She opened the front door and walked down the steps just as the tall man reached the house. They almost collided.

     
From the drive Roxanne White said, "Who are you?"

     
The man said, "I'll handle this."

     
Stalling for time, Sylvia offered him her hand. "Sylvia Strange."

     
The man did not try to cover his irritation. "What's your business here?" he asked belligerently. "You're trespassing."

     
Sylvia wasn't about to end up on the bottom of the food chain under this contentious asshole. She stood her ground. "I came to talk to Mrs. White.'' Now, Sylvia directed her words to Dupont's mother. "When I knocked, your sister offered to entertain me until you were free."

     
"There is a security gate—"

     
"The gates are open, Garret." Roxanne White stepped forward, effectively dismissing the man, until she was arm's length from Sylvia. She eyed her cautiously, and asked, "Are you a reporter?"

     
"I'm a psychologist." Sylvia had a close view of Roxanne White. The woman was drastically different from her portrait. Her hair was dry and dyed and heavily sprayed. Her skin was thick with makeup a shade too orange. Her eyes were blunted, haggard, painful to see. Time and circumstance had not been kind to Roxanne White.

     
"A psychologist? Is this about Jilly?"

     
Sylvia shook her head. "Dupont."

     
"You people said you'd bring me his remains." The woman's eyes widened in alarm. "What's going on? When are you going to release my son's body?"

     
Sylvia guessed that Roxanne White had assumed she was an F.B.I. psychologist. She considered whether to tell the truth.

     
"Roxanne, don't talk to her."

     
"Be quiet, Garret". An embittered Roxanne White stared at the man who had shaken her roughly just minutes before. "Leave us alone."

     
His face reddened and he spoke furiously. "I'm not going anywhere."

     
Roxanne White shrugged. "Suit yourself." She took Sylvia's arm. "I want to talk to this lady."

     
The man named Garret grabbed Sylvia's other arm, but she shook him off just as Roxanne stumbled. Sylvia supported the woman's weight

     
"Let her go," the man barked at Sylvia. "I demand to see your credentials."

     
Roxanne White's pale blue eyes were fierce. Fine lines were visible under her white powdered skin. She sputtered, "Meet Garret Ellington, the big man himself." She clutched Sylvia and breathed in her face. "Why don't you talk to him if you want
real
answers?"

     
Sylvia placed him now. Colonel Garret Ellington. Right-wing. Ex-marine, Vietnam vet. More recently, Mr. Ellington had spent several million dollars in a brief but highly publicized bid to become president of the United States. Although the man hadn't come close, his extremist ideas had attracted an unnerving number of supporters.

     
Ellington gave Sylvia the creeps.

     
Roxanne White pulled away from Sylvia abruptly. Clumsily she removed one leather loafer and hurled it at Garret Ellington. Sylvia ducked as the shoe flew past her shoulder and struck the man on the ear.

     
"Fucker," Roxanne mumbled. She stared at Garret Ellington defiantly as she addressed Sylvia. "You F.B.I. people should go talk to Fuller Lynch again and see what he has to say."

     
Sylvia saw Ellington's body stiffen.

     
"Roxanne?" Jilly had appeared on the front steps. "Is he hurting you?"

     
Sylvia heard Roxanne White groan. The woman aged another ten years as she gazed up at her bewildered sister.

     
Garret Ellington called an order to Jilly. "You go back inside. This is none of your business."

     
Jilly started to cry.

     
With that, Roxanne White lunged toward Ellington, kicking at him with her stocking foot. She shrieked, "You can't talk to my sister that way!"

     
Sylvia tried to ward off Roxanne, afraid the woman would hurt herself in her rage.

     
Garret Ellington bellowed suddenly. "Stop it!"

     
The energy drained from Roxanne White. Her arms fell limply to her sides. She sobbed once, then held a hand to her eyes.

     
Ellington's voice was low and tense. He said, "Why would you upset Jilly? You know what happens when you do." Then he turned, strode toward Sylvia, and announced, "I want you to leave this property this minute."

     
Sylvia said, "Roxanne—"

     
Roxanne White held out a shaking hand. Her voice was low. "No. . . I can't talk to you."

     
"Has he threatened you?" Sylvia asked. "Do you need help?"

     
Roxanne stumbled to the top of the steps. She shook her head. Tears had streaked her makeup. Her eyes were red.

     
Sylvia said, "I'm registered at the Biltmore. Sylvia Strange."

     
"Get in your car,
now!
" Garret Ellington's eyes were murderous.